Knight of the Old Republic
by MyrddinEmrys3
Summary: A novelization of the computer game KotOR. Substantially adheres to the original story, but definite interpretation and liberties taken by the author. LSM Revan.
1. Chapter 1 : The Endar Spire

* * *

**Galactic Republic Military (GRM) Service Record**

Name : Veers, Taryn

Sex : Male

Age : 29 years, 4 months, 17 days (Galactic Standard)

Birthworld : Deralia

Service Length : 1 months, 4 days (Galactic Standard)

Enlistment Period : [Duration of War]

Rank : Specialist, Third Class

Current Assignment : _Endar_ _Spire_, Flag Aide

Previous Occupation : Illicit Commerce

[_Record Classified by request of Jedi Council_]

* * *

I wake hazily from my dreams, still tossing and turning. It was not a pleasant dream; full of vague darkness, and ending with a sudden lurch of danger. The head of the narrow bunk suddenly slams into my head, jolting my eyes open. I sit up, abruptly alert. That jolt wasn't my dream; the ship feels like it's being hammered apart! A shipping accident of some kind? Or – the possibility frightens me – are we under attack? There is a war on, after all.

Without a moment to spare, I leap out of my bunk and tangle in the blanket half-draped over my body, sprawling to the floor. At that moment, the blasthatch slides open and a young man in Republic battledress bursts in with a blaster in hand.

"We've been ambushed by a Sith battlefleet!" he shouts even before his eyes find me, "The _Endar Spire_ is under attack! Hurry, you're needed on the bridge right away."

It is an attack then, not just some kind of accident. I knew we would be heading into battle soon, but I thought I would have time to prepare somehow. How do you willingly rush headfirst into the maw of death? Suddenly I realize I'm still sprawled on the floor. Hastily I scramble to my feet, embarrassment and anger at being embarrassed mixing sourly with the fear in my stomach.

"Who are you?" I snap suspiciously.

"Trask Ulgo, Republic Fleet ensign. I'm your bunkmate," he replies, slightly taken aback.

His placating response douses my anger, and my mind races to place his face. I think I remember him: tall, muscular, square jaw, pale hair cut in a flat-top. We were briefly introduced when I first came on board ten days ago, but I've been on night watch and haven't seen him since. I seem to recall an impression of competence and confidence, despite his youth. There's a new light of anxiety in his eyes since our first meeting, but his jaw is set with steely determination.

"What's going on, ensign?" I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

"Four sith battleships jumped out of hyperspace five minutes ago," Trask replies, his confidence restored, "They damaged our hyperdrive and are attacking us hard. Jedi Bastila sent me to bring you to the bridge immediately. You are Taryn Veers, right?"

"Yes, I'm Taryn. Bastila sent for me? Why does she want me?"

"I'm just following orders," he says, looking at me curiously, "I've heard about your spice and weapons smuggling days, though. Maybe Bastila thinks you'll know a way to get us out of this. Regardless, Bastila is in charge of this mission, and she's one of the most important assets in the Republic. Whatever happens, we have to protect her."

"Spice, weapons…and a few other things," I mutter, then shake my head, "I don't know the first thing about battles. My usual strategy is to hide or run away."

Trask's eyes narrow slightly, "You swore the Oath of Allegiance to the Republic; you're a soldier in the middle of a battle. We need every man to help now."

"I wouldn't have sworn that oath if I didn't intend to follow it," I reply firmly. I don't think my voice quavered over that at all. Not that I really _want_ to charge headfirst into the middle of a battle, but I mean to do what I can for the Republic, "Let's go to Bastila, then."

"First, hurry up and grab you gear," he says, his tone friendly again, "And…er…you should probably get dressed, too."

"Aw, and here I thought boxers were the new fashion these days," I quip back at him as I turn to my footlocker. He barks a short laugh, then catches himself and quickly turns to guard the blasthatch, blaster raised. Opening my footlocker, I toss the neatly folded undress uniforms to the side; they were meant for looking pretty, not fighting a battle. As another shudder wracks the ship, I brace myself against the bunk then hastily pull on a black shirt and red jacket. I'm not particularly superstitious, but I've worn this attire through many a tight spot before.

Carefully not looking at Trask, I swiftly change into fresh underclothes, black slacks and boots. From the bottom of the footlocker I pull a Republic issue shortsword and blaster that I had hoped I would never have to touch. I buckle the short sword over my left hip and the blaster over my right. Also in the footlocker are a couple medpacs and some other odds and ends that I quickly stuff into my jacket's pockets. Finally, I strap the personal communicator on my left wrist and turn around to face Trask.

"All right, let's go," I tell him.

"Let's hurry then…" he begins, then hesitates when he sees me, "Shouldn't you be in uniform?"

"I'm just here as an advisor," I shrug, "I can't move very quickly in those uniforms anyway."

"Well, let's just hope none of our men mistake you for an enemy and shoot at you," he grunts, "There's no time."

Force, I hadn't thought of that. I'm too used to working by myself. Admittedly, operating alone is not as glamorous as the holovids make it seem; I may not have had to wear uniforms but I did end up with a lot of unwashed laundry. I'm certainly glad not to be alone right now, in the midst of a battle. Trask and I both stagger as another shock vibrates through the ship.

"Well, if you're ready to go now," Trask says, "we need to move quickly; that was a ship docking with us, not a laser blast. I've heard at least four so far, so there's going to be sith troopers on board."

Nodding, I quickly stretch my arms out and lean side to side, limbering up my muscles and trying to calm my racing heart. I pull out the short sword at my hip and making a few experimental passes with it. There was only a brief introduction to the sword in basic training a couple months ago, and it shows; even I can tell I have very little skill and less strength. I'd better stick with the blaster; I have a steady hand with that at least. Trask looks pretty well-muscled though; he could probably make better use of a sword than that blaster pistol he's holding.

"Here," I say, tossing him the sword, "I think you'll do better with this than I will."

Trask catches it in his left hand and glances up at me. After a moment he nods, then puts away the blaster and places both hands on the sword's hilt.

"Good idea," he says, "If we run into any sith soldiers, you keep them occupied with your blaster and I'll keep them off you."

"Sounds like a plan," I reply, telling myself that I don't like the plan just because it keeps Trask between me and the bad guys. I hope I'm not that much of a coward. I've been in tight spots before and been shot at more than once, but running into the middle of a pitched battle feels different somehow. How am I going to make it through this? Fear grabs me like an icy fist as I ready myself for the fight. Right alongside the fear a part of me feels almost…eager, like a lion ready to pounce. And that frightens me even more.

"Don't worry," Trask says, seeing my fear, "We'll make it. Just stay behind me and cover my back."

I flash him a brief smile, "Well I'm glad one of us knows what he's doing. After you, ensign."

It's surprising how much that brief expression of confidence reassures him. The anxiety in his eyes fades away almost entirely as he grips my shortsword and opens the cabin's blasthatch.

The sounds of battle are clearer now: blaster shots and shouts echoing in the distance, bulkheads groaning, explosions. We're in a short corridor connecting three cabins to one of the _Endar Spire_'s main passageways. The only movement is a small, round utility droid trying to repair a damaged air line. Trask darts forward to the blasthatch at the end of the corridor and listens for a moment. Then he pushes the button to open it. Nothing happens.

"Damn!" he says, "The ship must be in lockdown because of the boarders. I don't know the override codes for this level."

"Let me see," I put my hand on his shoulder and he steps aside to let me bend over the console. Feh, this is the best security the Republic can come up with? I push the tiny reset button in the corner. The console goes dim for a moment then blinks back on, only without the red lockdown light.

"Too easy," I tell Trask.

"Good work," he smiles at me grimly, "Now step back and…"

Our personal communicators chirp up at that moment. I recognize the voice of the ship's chief pilot, Carth Onasi. His normally calm voice is tight with strain now.

"This is Carth Onasi – All hands report immediately to the bridge. The sith are threatening to overrun our position. We can't hold out long against their firepower! Repeat, all hands to the bridge!"

"That sounds pretty bad," I say worriedly to Trask, "How will anyone get off the ship if the sith have us all penned up on the bridge?"

"I don't know," Trask replies slowly, "But we have to get to Bastila. If enough of us are together, we can fight our way to the escape pods."

"Let's get to the bridge then," I nod, crouching beside the blasthatch with my blaster held ready. I hope he hurries before I start being afraid again.

Trask thumbs the door open and peers out. Blaster shots race down the corridor just in front of us. Not ten meters away I can see a lone Repubic soldier backing down the corridor and trading blaster shots with two silver-armored sith soldiers. Before Trask or I have a chance to react, the poor man screams in pain and falls to the deck as a blaster round takes him in the face.

At first I dart into the passage to try and help the soldier, but when he falls I duck behind a large canister sitting in the hall. The two sith lurch for a moment as another shudder wracks the ship. While they are recovering, Trask rushes forward with his sword in hand shouting, "For the Republic!"

The sith level their weapons and open up with their blasters again. I pop up from behind the canister and start firing at one of them while Trask attacks the other. The fear is forgotten now, there is only the battle. I fire several shots in rapid succession to spoil his aim, then duck back down and jump out into the middle of the corridor. Both hands griping the blaster, I take careful aim and fire. My shot hits the sith's left arm and he shouts in pain, but continues firing. Meanwhile, I see Trask assail the other sith out of the corner of my eye. Trask's opponent drops his blaster rifle and dodges back, trying to avoid Trask's blade and draw his own. He only lasts a few seconds before Trask buries my short sword in his stomach. As I continue to duel with the remaining sith, Trask turns and decapitates him with a single stroke. It's all over in just a few seconds, and Trask and I both stand there in the corridor, breathing hard.

"Well done," Trask says, massaging one of his shoulders, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I reply, then notice the black mark on Trask's uniform and hiss angrily, "You're hit! Here, I have a medpac on me."

"No, don't bother. Blaster shot just grazed me; I think it's only a slight burn," he protests breezily, "Save those in case one of us really gets injured."

Ignoring him, I seize his arm and look at the wound. It really is just a burn, but even minor wounds can fester if left alone. I put the medpac away, then tear off a strip of cloth from my shirt and quickly bind up his shoulder.

"We'll take care of that properly when we get out of here." I tell him. He looks a little embarrassed at the attention, but I'm not going to let him die on me.

"Yes, well, we need to get moving to reach the bridge before the sith do," Trask replies, "Let's see if those two have anything on them we can use."

We check the bodies, but their weapons are damaged and they don't have much else on them. All we find are a grenade and a handful of credits, for all the good credits will do me here. Maybe I can throw them at someone. We look around to see where to go next, and I'm shocked to see the extent of the damage to the ship. Down one end of the passageway, the bulkheads have buckled and collapsed, completely blocking it. Down a side passage, a destroyed utility droid lies next to a fuel line it was trying to repair, which is now slowly leaking burning fluid that blocks that corridor as completely as the other. Fortunately, the passage leading to the bridge is still usable.

We hurry from the smoke-choked corridor to the next blastdoor. Trask listens at it for a moment, then signals to me that there are enemies on the other side. I raise my weapon, heart now pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and fear. Trask opens the door to reveal two sith soldiers who appear to be looting the arms locker in the passage. They look up when the door opens, grasping their blaster rifles. My first blaster round takes one of them full in the chest. His armor takes much of the blast, but he curses in pain and fires wildly down the passageway. I dance to the side and follow up with several more shots until he finally falls dead to the deck. Meanwhile Trask attacks the other sith, and fells him after a short exchange of sword blows. Trask did not escape unscathed, though; a short cut under his ribs is slowly oozing blood.

"Maybe I should go first if you're going to keep getting yourself hurt like this," I comment jokingly as I pull out a medpac. This wound is enough to justify using it. He tears open his uniform a little and presses the two halves of the wound together so I can spread the medpac ointment over it. The gel quickly clots up the blood and seals the gash tightly together. There's enough left over to spread some on his shoulder burn as well.

"And get your jacket dirty?" he kids back, wincing slightly as I press on his wound, "That's better."

"Well fought, by the way," I tell him, "You're quite good with that sword."

"I was decent during training," he says, looking at his blood-stained blade with surprise, "but I've never fought in earnest before. Somehow, it's not as tough as I thought it would be."

"Tough enough," I say, glancing at his wound, "But I'm glad to have you with me."

"We're not really equipped to repel a boarding action," Trask says abruptly, looking away from the evidence of violence in his hands, "Maybe we should see if that arms locker has anything useful."

Surprisingly, it does. On top of the arms locker lays a brown vest of combat armor. I pick it up, examining it carefully. It's a fairly standard issue, made of good fibers that are surprisingly flexible considering its thickness and strength. I hand it over to Trask.

"You had better use this," I tell him, "You seem to need it."

He shakes his head, "No, you wear it. I can put up with a few cuts, but my job is to get you to Bastila in one piece."

"You're the one up front," I reason, "So you're the one who is going to be shot at all the time. Just take the armor."

"Put it on, Taryn," Trask raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking in what almost looks like a smile, "Do I have to make it an order, Specialist?"

I roll my eyes, but I don't think I'm going to budge him and we don't have time to be arguing like this. I'm rather impressed with Trask's determination to do his duty, though he does have a youth's disregard for danger. Sighing, I acquiesce and pull the vest on, fastening it on tightly. It's a little large, but it fits rather well.

"Now this, I will use," Trask says, pulling a large sword out of the locker. It's almost a meter long, and when he picks it up it looks quite deadly.

"I hope you're not just trying to compensate for something," I chuckle, taking my short sword as he hands it to me and slipping it back into its sheath. Trask laughs back, but his face reddens a little. We continue to pull things out of the locker: another shortsword, some grenades, and a couple of medpacs. Trask won't have much use for grenades if he's up close and personal with that sword, so I strap them to my belt.

We don't waste too much time, as the ship continues to rock with explosions and the sound of fighting echoes from distant corridors. When Trask opens the next door, we see a small squad of Republic soldiers about thirty meters away engaging twice their number of Sith soldiers at the junction of two passageways. Half a dozen dead bodies already lay scattered on the ground. Even as we watch, two more of the Republic soldiers go down in the blaze of blaster fire and flashing swords. I rush forward, Trask right behind me, to help the remaining soldiers who are locked blade to blade with a number of the sith.

Suddenly, I feel Trask's arm around me and his weight pulls both of us to the deck. Why in the galaxy did he do that? We have to help our crewmates! There's a loud boom and I look up to see the last of the Republic soldiers collapsing painfully to the ground from the grenade that tore off half his face. The same grenade blast has killed the rest of his squad, as well as the handful of sith in melee with them. Furious, I pull one of the grenades from my belt, without even standing up, and roll it across the deck. The squad of remaining sith is just noticing us when the grenade goes off in their midst. Trask jumps to his feet, sword in hand, and charges the only survivor. Between my blaster and Trask's longsword, the sith trooper doesn't last long.

Trask and I walk slowly toward each other, both of us breathing hard.

"Nice toss with that grenade," he says approvingly.

"I wasn't even thinking," I reply, "I was just angry that we got here too late. And they were so callous! They didn't care that the grenade would kill their own men, too."

"I'd heard the sith were cruel, but…" Trask shakes his head, looking rather shocked, "You'd think even sith would care for their own."

"I owe you my life," I tell him, "If you hadn't seen that grenade and pulled me to the ground, I would be dead too. I just wish we had gotten here in time to help them."

"There's no owing. Neither of us would make it alone. If I'd tried to charge half a dozen sith at once I would be dead as well," he looks sadly at the fallen men, then grimaces at one of the faces and whispers, "So long, Saraad."

The ship shudders under a particularly violent blast, recalling both of us to the situation. There's no need to say more; if we stay here much longer we'll both be joining our fallen comrades whatever we do. Quickly, we search the sith bodies and find a few odds and ends, but little of their equipment is still serviceable. Neither of us can bring ourselves to search the Republic soldiers' bodies. Down one of the branching corridors is a damaged utility droid that apparently was hit by blaster fire while trying to repair the door beyond. That door was the shortest route to the bridge; we'll have to go around. I grab some salvageable parts from the droid, then Trask and I jog to the only other accessible passageway. Trask thumbs the door open and we peer through.

The first thing I notice through the haze of smoke is the lights, red and green. The haze clears quickly, revealing a man and woman locked in combat with lightsabers. The woman is wielding a green lightsaber and wearing the brown robes of a Jedi with her head shaved except for a long, thin pony tail. Her opponent is an arrogant looking man swathed in black with metal plates sewn in, and swinging a brilliant red blade. I raise my blaster to take aim at the man, but Trask grabs my arm.

"It's a dark jedi!" he hisses at me, "This fight is too much for us. All we'd do is get in her way."

Reluctantly, I lower my blaster and simply watch. Trask is right, though; this fight is too much for us. Trask uses his weapon competently, and those sith troopers know how to swing a blade as well, but these jedi make them look like children playing with sticks. It's less of a fight and more of a dance; both jedi one with their blades. They dance gracefully around each other, lightsabers moving so fast they're almost a blur. There's something beautiful about it, almost seductive; something desperately calls me to glide forward and join in that deadly dance.

I can scarcely follow the patterns of the swift swordplay between the two, but clearly the brown-robed Jedi gains the upper hand somewhere, for her emerald blade suddenly blossoms from her opponent's back. His eyes widen and he drops his lightsaber, crumpling soundlessly to the ground. The victorious Jedi turns slowly from his corpse, hands tightening again on her lightsaber's hilt. She looks tired and wounded, but determined. Suddenly another violent blast rocks the ship, and the bulkhead behind her collapses in a cascade of sparks and groaning metal. When we can see again, her lifeless body lays crushed beneath several tons of buckled steel.

"Damn!" Trask exclaims, moving out from the doorway. As he does, two sith trooper similarly run out from behind the door on the far side of the half-collapsed passageway. Trask rushes toward them, longsword raised. Both of the sith drop their blasters and draw their own swords, dashing at him. I lift my blaster and fire at one of them, but the shots hit only glancingly and bounce off his armor. He turns from Trask to charge at me. Backing off, I continue to fire at him, but my shots go wild. Panicking, I back off faster. The sith swings his razor-sharp blade toward me and I desperately dodge his blow. I barely twist out of the way of his follow-up thrust. On his next swing, the tip of the sword is only turned back by my combat vest. I know I can only keep this up so long before he gets me. I'm just about ready to panic and try to run, when a blood soaked blade bursts from the sith's chest.

I sag with relief and lean against the bulkhead as Trask pulls his longsword free from the corpse.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," I tell him.

"We'll make it," he assures me, quickly picking up a couple medpacs from the fallen sith soldiers, "The bridge is just on the other side of that blast door."

Sighing, I stand back up and move forward. A small, square object lies on the ground near where the jedi fell. Moving carefully around the buckled bulkheads, I scoop it up and look at it curiously. I'm not sure what it is, but I tuck it in my belt pouch and turn to Trask.

"Let's go then," I say, trying to sound determined, "I hope they haven't made it to the bridge yet, but I don't want to be too late again."

"You should probably use your short sword now," Trask suggests, "There isn't much room on the bridge and it's suicide to use a blaster in close quarters."

"As I just discovered," I grimace, "But what if they have lightsabers? Won't they just cut up these metal blades?"

"No, the cortosis weave these swords are made of can catch even a lightsaber without shattering. Rather necessary when you're in a war of jedi."

Putting my blaster in its holster, I pull the short sword free. I swing it back and forth a few times. I wish I had a quarter the skill of those jedi, but I hope I'm good enough to stand up to a sith trooper.

"Ready to go now?" Trask asks me.

I hesitate; we've made it this far, but I don't know how I can keep rushing straight into danger after danger. Despite the rush of adrenaline, I feel tired and afraid. If we're lucky, Bastila and the remnant of the crew is still holding out on the bridge, but they could as easily all be dead by now. Trask is taking slow, deep breaths and staring intently at the blastdoor as if he can see what is beyond it and planning his next moves. After the chaos of the minutes since I awoke, all I can see beyond the door is the real possibility that we will soon be dead.

"If this is as far as we get," I tell Trask slowly, "I'm glad to be fighting alongside you."

Trask looks surprised, but instead of responding he raises his sword in a silent salute. I return the gesture, then turn toward the hatch and punch in the override code.

Our first view of the bridge dashes our hopes for finding a Republic holdout. There are only a handful of Republic soldiers cornered in the front of the bridge and fighting desperately against three times their own number of sith troopers. Through the wide windows of the bridge is a nauseating view of the planet Taris spinning drunkenly before us as the _Endar Spire _plummets toward its surface. Sith starfighters glitter as they dart back and forth, strafing the ship. Two of the sith soldiers are apparently guarding the door because they attack us with swords raised as soon as the door opens.

Trask and I each face off against one of them. The sith confronting me takes a quick swing at me with all his might. I bring my sword up to fend him off; he is stronger than I am, but I manage to deflect his blow if not stop it. He tries again and I barely deflect him again. This time I try to follow up with a quick attack of my own, but he sidesteps it and thrusts at me while I'm off balance. I twist out of the way, his blade scratching my combat vest. Damn, this isn't going as well as I'd hoped. He's not very fast, but I'm too inexperienced to react quickly or effectively. We exchange a few more blows, then he makes a strong swing from shoulder to hip. Jumping back I bring my blade up as quickly as I can. I manage to deflect it away from my chest, but sudden pain bursts through my leg like fire and I let out a scream of agony. Sensing his advantage, my opponent lifts his weapon for a final blow.

Trask brings his longsword cleanly through the neck of the sith poised to finish me. Engaged though he was with his own fight, on hearing my cry he ducked a blow from his own opponent and pivoted to kill my attacker in a single stroke. The remaining sith is thrown of balance by his own attack, giving Trask time to turn back and block his next blow. I glance down to see blood soaking my pants from the deep cut in my left thigh, but I raise my shortsword in both hands and try to find an opening to help Trask. It is unnecessary; after a few more parries, Trask finds an opening and with two strokes finishes off the second guard.

Before either of us can move to join the melee in the front of the bridge, the deck vibrates with the impact of a starfighter's laser blast just overhead. Brilliant white light fills the room as electricity arcs from the tracking consoles on the ceiling to the pilot's seat in the front of the bridge. The heat of the shock is almost palpable, and for a moment I fear I've been permanently blinded by it. Slowly vision returns, and Trask and I are left blinking through a purple afterimage at a score of burned corpses littering the deck of the bridge. We're getting awful lucky today; if we had been a few seconds sooner, we would have been caught in that arc as well.

There don't appear to be any more sith remaining on the bridge. As the danger fades, the pain in my leg goes from a throbbing ache to flaming agony. I drop to the ground to take the weight off my leg, groping for a medpac. My leg is almost covered in blood now. Trask rushes over, dropping his sword and taking the medpac from my fumbling hands. With gritted teeth, I close my eyes and just try to stay sitting up. Pain lances through me when Trask presses the two halves of the wound carefully together. Then he spreads the cool gel from the medpac over the length of the cut. The pain starts to dull almost immediately; it's still there but fades to a sharp ache.

"Are you all right now?" he asks sharply, "Were you injured anywhere else?"

"No, I think I'm alright," I open my eyes, shaking my head slightly to clear my mind.

"See? We're still alive," he grins at me, helping me to my feet, "Just think, if we can make it through this, we can make it through anything."

I gingerly put weight on the leg, and am surprised to find barely a twinge. Those medpacs work extremely well. Too bad I can't clean up the drying blood, though. Sure that I'm steady on my feet, Trask turns to pick up his sword. I grab him by his arm.

"Thank you," I tell him simply.

"Hang in there," he says, "Let's focus on the job at hand and we can sort out thanks afterward."

"Sure thing," I reply, "Where do we go next? Where's Bastila?"

Trask glances around the deck of the bridge, scanning the corpses, "Well, she's not on the bridge, so they must have retreated to the escape pods, down the starboard side of the ship. If she's evacuating we really need to hurry; the only reason the sith would board instead of just blasting us apart is to capture Bastila. Once she abandons ship, they'll have no reason not to just vaporize us where we stand."

"Let's move out then," I say, scooping up my fallen weapon.

We don't pause at the bridge's second blastdoor, but hurry through into the passage beyond. Several corpses and blaster scoring on the bulkheads indicate a battle passed down this direction a short while ago. We come to the door leading to the escape pods, when a blastdoor to the passageway ahead of us opens without warning. A bald middle-aged man swathed in dark black robes looks up, mild surprise flitting through his condescending expression. He fingers his black goatee with one hand while the other casually reaches for the long silver object hanging from his belt. A dark jedi.

"A pair of survivors, eh?" he says to himself, then speaks commandingly to us, "Tell me where the Jedi Bastila is, worms, and I will make your deaths swift and painless."

Fear paralyzes me. I saw how well those other jedi fought; there's no way Trask and I together could last three seconds against this man. Terror grasps my lungs like a plunge into ice-cold water. All for nothing - I am going to die. This is it. Hope is already dead. My shortsword drops from my useless grasp. I hear the clatter of Trask dropping his weapon, too.

"Well?" the man sneers, then his gaze rests on the epaulets of Trask's uniform, "I'll get answers from one of you. Perhaps if I slowly cut your friend here to pieces before your eyes, you will loosen your tongue, dog. Where – is – Bastila?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Trask breathing heavily, staring wide-eyed at death personified. Suddenly, Trask hurls himself at the black cloaked man with a wordless roar. The two of them fall through the door the man just stepped from, surprise evident on the jedi's face. Trask is abruptly flung through the air by nothing I can see to land just in front of me. The dark jedi is standing up now, fury on his face as he ignites the twin red blades of his lightsaber. Trask scrambles to his feet, snatching up a sword from one of the corpses.

"Run, Taryn!" he shouts, "Get to Bastila. I'll hold him off. Go!"

Trask leaps through the door, smashing his sword into the console as he goes. The blastdoor seals quickly behind him, shutting out all noise.

I just stand there, staring at the sealed door in horror. Trask just…the fool! Why did he do that? We should both have just tried to…or I should have…I can't think straight. A blood-curling scream of pure agony penetrates the thick blastdoor. Suddenly fear fills me again, this time spurring me to action. Trask's last word – "Go!" – echoes in my mind. I snatch up Trask's fallen longsword and flee from his dying screams.

I don't know how long I run like that. It can't be long, the ship is only so big after all, but it feels like hours with the horror of Trask's death and the fear of that dark jedi filling my mind like a cloud. I'm brought out of my mindless flight by a voice calling through the personal communicator on my wrist.

"…Onasi; I repeat, this is Carth Onasi, do you read me?"

Numbly, I finger the button on the communicator and reply, "I read you."

I hear a sigh of relief through the communicator, but his voice is calm and direct, "I've been tracking your position through the _Endar Spire_'s life support systems. You're the last surviving crew member of the _Endar Spire._"

"What about Bastila? I have to find…" I'm supposed to find Bastila. I know I am. Why do I know that again?

"Bastila's escape pod is away," he assures me, "There's one remaining pod that we can use. I'll wait for you as long as I can, but you need to get to the escape pods immediately."

"Yes…yes sir," I say. I firm my grip on my sword. Trask's sword. He sacrificed himself to let me escape; I have to make sure I do. A lone sith soldier wanders into the passageway, blaster held nonchalantly. Without thought, I hurl myself toward him.

The man appears unprepared for the sight of a man with a blood covered leg holding a longsword over his head, screaming in rage and charging straight toward him. He stumbles backward, taking wild shots in my direction. Without pause, I swing the blade with all my might. Wounded, he tries to pull free his own sword, but I pursue him relentlessly. After a few moments of frenzied attacking and dodging, I hold my blade poised over his lifeless corpse. I quiver with the urge to take out my fear and anger on this dead man; to cut at his corpse until I'm too tired to lift the sword, too tired to be afraid. Something, though, whispers to me that this is not right. For a long moment I stand there, struggling with my emotions. Ever so slowly, I lower the weapon, my fury dimming with it. I pause to check the scratch the man left on my arm, but it is not serious. I look around to get my bearings, then head for the blasthatch that leads toward the escape pods.

I stop to listen at the blasthatch. I don't know if I can take on many of these sith at once, so I had better be careful. Moving quietly, I duck to the side of the hatch. I thumb the button, then grasp the longsword with both hands and press myself up against the bulkhead, listening.

"Who goes there?" comes a gruff challenge, muffled by the sith soldier's helmet.

There's a long moment of silence. I hold my breath, trying not to make a sound as the _Endar Spire_ continues to shudder around us. Slowly, there's a sound of footsteps moving toward the open hatch. As soon as I see the snub of a blaster rifle poking through the opening, I whirl out from behind the bulkhead and bring the longsword up through his gut with all my might. He doesn't make a sound as he crumples to the deck.

In the small chamber beyond a second sith trooper stands on the far side of a low table, shock evident in his posture despite the face-covering helmet. He gives a shout and starts firing his blaster at me. I feel a searing pain in my right side, but continue to pull my blade free from the fallen man. I roll across the table and swing my sword toward him. He jumps back with a cry, but not soon enough to keep my blade from wounding him. Shakily, he draws his own sword and tries to fend off my determined attacks. He lasts only moments before I put the point of the blade through his chest.

Panting, I sit down on the table to look at the blaster wound. It doesn't appear immediately life-threatening, but it is almost as bad as the cut in my thigh I received on the bridge. I carefully pull out another medpac, when Onasi's voice comes through the communicator again.

"Be careful there. Do you read me? Be very careful. There's a whole squadron of sith troopers in the chamber just ahead of you; they're trying to break through into the escape pod bay where I am."

I wince, pulling my combat vest open and tearing my shirt so I can get to the wound, "How am I supposed to fight past a whole squadron?"

"I saw a damaged assault droid in that chamber on my way past," Onasi replies calmly, "You might be able to fix it up with a little bit of work. Or, if you can hack into the computer console near you, you might be able to turn the _Endar Spire_'s security systems against them."

I just might be able to do that. This medpac gel feels like a cool bath on my blaster wound. I slowly stand and look around. There's a set of lockers which, when opened, reveal a large stockpile of usable parts and disposable computer spikes. How convenient. I log on to the console, but it only takes a few moments to discover that the security systems are damaged. I can only get a camera feed showing me the six sith troopers trying to blast their way through the far door. One of them has red armor and a heavy sidearm; an officer perhaps. There's no way I can take on six at once. I could use a grenade, but if even three of them survive, the odds are still stacked too high. There are no guarantees against even one at a time.

On a sudden inspiration, I use a couple of the computer spikes to hack into the _Endar Spire_'s maintenance programs. Sure enough, there's a significant power conduit in the far chamber feeding a number of different systems. I quickly disable all the safeties and begin reconfiguring those systems to short circuit. I switch back to the camera and watch the conduit slowly being to overheat. The sith are so focused on the far door they don't even noticed. There's a sudden, blinding flash, and the camera goes blank. That should have taken care of most of them, but just in case any are left…

I head over to the damaged droid Onasi had mentioned. It looks a little old, but undamaged. The poor droid just hasn't been properly maintained in a long while. It only takes a couple minutes to find and replace the bad parts, and the droid is up and running. Grinning, I give it the order to patrol for hostiles and duck beside the door. The droid walks up to the door and opens it, then walks through. There is no sound to be heard. I peer through the opening, and see the droid proudly patrolling around the chamber already littered with half a dozen corpses. Oh well.

I quickly pick up the undamaged equipment from the corpses. The red-armored leader of the squad had an ion blaster and a very modern looking vibroblade that will likely come in handy. Speaking into my communicator I report to Onasi.

"The sith on this side have been cleared out, sir. You can open the door."

Moments later the door grinds open slowly, catching on the spots where the sith had tried to blast through. Carth Onasi steps through, wearing the orange undress uniform of a ship's officer. He's in his late thirties, with short brown hair and a stubble of a beard on his tanned face. From the little interaction I've had with him, he's an experienced officer and excellent pilot, but still friendly with the crew. His face looks haggard now, but there's genuine relief in his eyes when he sees me.

"You made it just in time! Let's get moving before the sith blow us to bits. We can hide out on the planet below."

Onasi walks over to the small cylindrical pod nestled in its tube along the wall and opens its hatch. He stands there, gesturing for me to get in. I check briefly to make sure I have everything. I carefully sheath Trask's longsword, then climb in the small pod. The interior is tiny, to say the least, but heavily padded. The pod is designed for two people to recline feet down on the curve interior, with several belts and restraints to strap in. I slide into the rightmost position and fumble to buckle myself in securely. Moments later, Carth slips in beside me.

"I hope you don't mind getting a little friendly," he says as he seals the hatch, trying to lighten the mood a little.

It is very snug, and Carth jostles me a bit as he squeezes into and tightens his buckles, leaving us both pressed up tightly against each other. I'm too exhausted and drained to care or respond, though. I think Carth understands, because he doesn't make another sally. He reaches up and pulls a couple levers.

"Here we go," he warns me, "Brace yourself."

There's a sudden jolt, and the straps dig into me as the pod is launched violently away from the dying _Endar Spire_. After that first burst of speed, there's only the feel of drifting. I feel a little a little woozy as blood drifts to my head in the sudden weightlessness. After a few moments, I glance up through the thick glass portal in the hatch of the pod and see the shrinking form of the _Endar Spire_. The ship sparkles with the orange laser blasts of the sith's relentless attack and orange-white explosions. Even as I watch, a series of bright white flashes flicker from the stern of the vessel, and then the _Endar Spire_ explodes into flaming fragments. I hear Carth curse quietly beside me and turn to see him looking through the portal as well.

"Sorry," he says apologetically a moment later, "I hate losing a ship."

There's another pause as we silently watch the _Endar Spire_'s burning remains fade into the distance. Then Carth speaks up again.

"There's no way they got all their own people off before she died," he mutters angrily, "Even after all this time, I'm still surprised by those sith bastards' complete lack of mercy."

"I saw the same thing earlier," I say quietly, finally breaking my silence, as I remember the sith tossing a grenade at their own men to take out our shipmates. Carth looks at me, the anger slowly fading from his face.

"Don't worry," he says, "It's not over yet. We're still alive and the sith haven't caught us. As long as we're alive, we can keep fighting them."

I don't feel much fight left in me at the moment. And Trask…there's no fight left for him at all. Not for Trask or any of the dozens of other men and women who I worked with for the last ten days. I'm still not sure why he sacrificed himself for me like that. A brave soul determined to accomplish his mission no matter the cost. The galaxy needs more people like him, not less. The pod starts vibrating slightly, and my fingers tighten around the restraints.

"Just relax," Carth advises, "We're moving into the atmosphere now. Just relax and we'll be safely on the ground in a few minutes."

I close my eyes and try to relax my grip, but tense back up again as the vibrating gets more turbulent. Gravity returns as the pod begins bleeding speed into the atmosphere. Now I just hope it bleeds enough speed before we make it to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2 : The Razor's Hilt

* * *

[_High priority GRM transmission from Taris_]

1745th Division Headquarters, Taris

1605 Coordinated Galactic Time

Admiral Adarran, 14th Sector Headquarters,

We are under attack by sith forces as indicated by our distress signals at 1355 and 1442. Immediate reinforcements requested or Taris will fall. Orbital defenses compromised, minimal ground forces available, local support negligible.

The attack began at 1352, about two hours after the _Endar Spire_ arrived in-system. Two sith Interdictor class ships and two cruisers came out of hyperspace on top of the _Endar Spire_ and attacked, destroying her at 1424. Number of survivors unknown, but twenty-one escape pods were tracked to the planet surface. At 1441 thirty-two Interdictor class ships, ninety-seven cruisers, and one hundred thirteen other capital ships and transports arrived in-system. Orbital defenses were attacked at 1459 and destroyed despite valiant efforts on the part of their crews. Number of survivors unknown, but expected to be low since most of the facilities were incomplete.

System-wide sensors were lost with orbital facilities, but ground telescopes have identified more than one hundred ninety more ships arriving in orbit. We estimate the current hostile fleet at five to six hundred ships, including sixty Interdictor class ships and two hundred cruisers. Intercepted transmissions indicate that Admiral Saul Karath is leading the fleet with a sizable force from the Galen front. They also suggest that Darth Malak has joined the fleet in person.

We received a demand for surrender at 1544, and refused as per General Order 113. However, the local Tarisian authorities have offered a separate surrender and full cooperation with the sith forces, despite Ambassador Chock'lath's best efforts. The sith fleet has taken up a full blockade of the planet and prevents evacuation, even of critical personnel. Sith drop ships are preparing to land, and we estimate we will be outnumbered at least a hundred to one. We will begin purging our databanks if we are not relieved within...

[_Transmission interrupted. No further transmissions received._]

* * *

Trask's dying screams echo in my ears, and the Sith turns his malevolent gaze on me. He casually shoves Trask's corpse aside with a heavy black boot and begins slowly striding toward me. I turn and flee in terror.

Down the red and white passageways of the _Endar Spire_ I run, pursued by the spectre of death made flesh. Desperate to escape, I push myself faster and faster, but no matter how fast I go the sound of his heavy footsteps keeps pace. The corridor stretches endlessly ahead of me now, without window, door, or end. I feel myself tiring, each step harder than the last, and throw a panicked glance over my shoulder.

The black clothed Sith is still behind me, but now his head is covered in a deep cowl that hides his features in darkness. His cloak billows out behind him and fills the passageway with shadow, as if the night itself pursues me. His weapon now has a single blade like a red lance of fire leveled straight at my heart. If he catches me, I fear I will long for death.

Looking back ahead, I skid to a halt just before a large window looking out onto the stars. The freedom of open space beckons mockingly, but there is nowhere left for me to run. I am trapped. Despair overwhelms me and I start to shake with the fear once held at bay by moving feet. Then something deep inside snaps, and the terror hardens into something else. I will not end like this, cowering like a cornered rat! Almost surprised to find this sudden courage within, I turn to face my pursuer.

Instead of the corridor of the _Endar Spire_, I am in a wide, dimly lit chamber of dull grey. I stand at the end of a man-high causeway that runs down the center of the room from a heavy blast door ahead to the broad window behind. The Sith stands halfway down the causeway with his lightsaber still in hand, but he is no longer looking at me.

A young woman with short amber hair in the light brown robes of a Jedi strides through the door. Her step is confident and her face hardened with determination. Hope glimmers within me, and I wonder if she is here to rescue me. Strangely, the overwhelming feeling I have is one of caution and the sense that this Jedi is more dangerous than the Sith standing before me.

The Sith eyes her warily, his blade held ready. The woman ignites her own yellow saber and launches herself at him. Their blades meet with a crack like muted thunder and a flurry of red and yellow light. The Sith fights with all of his considerable skill, but falls back before the Jedi intruder's vigor. For long moments they duel down the causeway as I watch impassively. The Sith is desperately blocking an attack by the Jedi's blade when her foot lands in his ribs and knocks him to the deck. Breathing hard, the young woman turns to face me. Sudden trepidation softens her determined countenance but her blade is still held ready, and I finally get a clear look at her face.

My eyes snap open and I stare blearily at the non-descript ceiling above me, still roiling from the images and emotions of the dream. Who was that woman? I would swear I've never seen her before, but her face seems...familiar for some reason. I don't normally remember my dreams, but the scene in that dim grey chamber and that Jedi's face are so vivid, I suspect this is one dream I will not soon forget. I close my eyes again and try to shake it all away. Well, dreams are funny things, and I suppose it's no surprise to dream of Trask's death and fleeing from Sith after what happened on the _Endar Spire_.

Wait...the _Endar Spire_, the battle, the escape pod...where am I? I sit up suddenly, my heart racing again, and stare around wildly. There's no one in the room, though I'm not sure whether that's a good sign or a bad one. I'm lying in a bed in the middle of what looks like the small bedroom of an apartment. It may have been a decent enough place at one time, but it looks like house keeping has been on vacation for a decade or two. Everything from the walls to the dresser to the chair in the corner is worn, scratched, and cracking except the bedsheets, which are mercifully clean. A many-windowed skyscraper and a sliver of orange and pink sky fill the room's small window.

Well, I'm alive and not a sith prisoner, which is good. At least, I don't think I'm a sith prisoner. They could be playing mind games with me by putting me in a comfortable setting, trying to confuse me to get me to talk. I shudder at the thought even as I wonder why such an idea would cross my mind; probably too much time around the creepier elements of the galaxy's underbelly. It doesn't seem likely, though. Aside from the fact that the sith would have better accommodations than this crummy place, who am I that they would put so much effort into breaking me? Well then, the first thing to do is find out exactly where I am and how I got here.

As I begin to relax again, I become painfully aware of my body for the first time. The wounds in my side and thigh ache faintly, but mostly I'm just sore all over. My shoulders and shins are particularly tender and protest loudly against my recent movements. I don't remember the escape pod actually landing at all, but I must have gotten pretty banged up when it did. My head starts to throb painfully and insistently. I close my eyes and put a hand to my temple, hoping the pain will go away eventually. It does, but in the meantime I come up with a new first thing to do – find some water. Half a lake ought to do it. Burning stars, I'm thirsty! How long was I out? My throat feels like one of the more remote regions of Tatooine.

When my head finally stops throbbing enough for me to see clearly, I gather myself together and slowly push myself up from the bed. I take one slow, careful step, then another. My legs threaten to collapse underneath me and I stagger to clutch the doorframe for support. Okay, so I'm a lot weaker than I thought. I haven't felt this feeble since that time on Folor after I went for a jog in hard vacuum without a pressure suit. After a couple minutes my legs seem to regain enough strength to hold me up and I thumb open the bedroom's door.

Carth looks up from a datapad and breaks into a relieved grin as he rises from his seat, "At last! It's good to see you finally up, instead of thrashing around in your sleep. I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up."

I feel vaguely relieved at the sight of the Republic pilot – his presence means I'm not in immediate danger – but I croak out the first thing that comes to mind, "Water..."

Carth hurriedly puts his arm around me and helps me over to one of the chairs in the anteroom. I sigh gratefully as I sink into the worn cushions, exhausted by the walk from the bed. Carth moves off and returns moments later with a jug and a tall cup full of water, which I gulp down like a man dying of thirst. Which is appropriate, since I may very well be a man dying of thirst.

"Take it easy," Carth cajoles as I immediately start guzzling a second cupful, "You'll make yourself sick gulping it down that way."

I admiringly ponder this wisdom while emptying my third cup and pouring a fourth. Just one more won't hurt, of course, but I carefully put the full cup down and place my hands firmly on the armrests. I turn to look at Carth and start mentally grasping for some words to start the conversation we need to have.

"I suppose you want to know where we are and what happened after the battle," Carth suggests before I can put a sentence together.

Well, I was planning to start with 'Hi, I'm Taryn', but that was the next thing on my list so I nod, "That would be good."

"We're in an abandoned apartment in the upper city of the planet Taris," Carth begins.

"Which city of Taris?" I interrupt.

"Taris is all one big city. Well, there's a lot of ocean too, but it's still one of the biggest single cities in the galaxy outside of Coruscant. Our escape pod crashed in an upper plaza and you were banged up pretty bad. Luckily, I wasn't seriously hurt," he says matter-of-factly. He looks like he was banged up pretty bad himself, but I get the impression Carth is a tougher customer than I am, "I managed to drag you out of the pod and into this apartment before the sith showed up."

"The sith!" I exclaim, "They're here?"

"They started landing a couple hours after we crashed. There was quite a crowd of locals around us when we arrived, but they got distracted when the drop ships started pouring from the skies, and I got us away without anyone seeing. The sith shouldn't be able to find us that way."

"I guess that means I owe you my life," I breath, with as much gratitude as I can muster through simple feebleness, "Thank you."

Carth waves away my thanks nonchalantly, "You don't have to thank me. I've never abandoned anyone on a mission, and I'm not about to start now. Besides, I'm going to need your help. Taris is completely under sith control. They have a fleet orbiting the planet, they've declared martial law, and imposed a planet-wide quarantine."

A blockade and quarantine will definitely make it hard for us to get off planet and back into Republic space. Difficult, but not impossible. A blockade is a formidable wall, but every wall has doors, and if we're clever we can slip through one of them. I hope we can manage it quickly; the thought of the sith so near makes me queasy. I glance at the empty cup in my hand and wonder when I picked it back up.

"Don't worry," Carth adds, "I've been in worse spots. We'll make it."

The fact that Trask used those same words minutes before being cut down by a dark jedi doesn't reassure me.

"I saw on your service records that you understand a remarkable number of alien languages," he continues in an almost lecturing tone, as if giving a prepared mission briefing, "That's a pretty rare skill, but it should come in handy while we're stranded on an alien world. There's no way the Republic can get anyone through the sith blockade to help us, and they don't have the resources to attack a major sith fleet without stripping the Republic's defenses to the bone. If we're going to find Bastila and get off this planet, we can't rely on anybody but ourselves."

"Find Bastila?" I repeat stupidly, goggling at him. What in the galaxy is he babbling about? I thought we were just trying to get back into the Republic.

"You do know who Jedi Bastila is, don't you?" Carth asks in the careful tones of a concerned doctor talking to a trauma patient.

"Yes, of course," I stammer, "It's just...what do you mean about us finding her? What does she have to do with us?"

"Bastila's the key to the whole Republic war effort," Carth explains, "The sith attacked the _Endar Spire _ to capture or kill her; they know that the Republic won't last long without her Battle Meditation. For the sake of the Republic war effort, we have to try and find her. Bastila has the entire sith fleet searching for her, but they won't be looking for a couple of common soldiers like us. If we're careful, we can move about the planet without attracting notice and help Bastila escape Taris."

For a long moment I stare at him blankly.

"So, what you're saying," I summarize slowly, "Is that you expect a couple of simple soldiers who are hiding for their lives with no resources to race against an entire army with virtually unlimited resources to find a single person on a planet of billions, and then spirit her past the same army whose sole purpose is to find that person. Did I get that right, or are we supposed to be hopping on one foot the whole time too?"

"You don't have to be sarcastic," Carth frowns, "I know it sounds difficult, but like I said, I've been in worse spots and gotten through. Besides, what's the alternative? I mean, if Bastila is captured or killed, then no one can stop Malak and his sith from wiping out the Republic. We have to at least try, it's our duty as Republic soldiers."

I just stare at him blankly. I'm not sure whether he's incredibly brave and dedicated, playing a joke on me, or just completely insane. No, he's dead serious and fully expects me to join him on his quest. I empty my cup again, and turn to find the jug is empty. Ah, well, I'm actually not very thirsty anymore.

"Do you have any food?" I ask him, trying to stall for time.

Carth looks a little startled by the change in subject, but he moves off toward the apartment's kitchen and returns with a plastic-wrapped package.

"I'm afraid all I have are a few field rations from the escape pod. I haven't had time to scrounge up much in the way of food, what with..." he trails off vaguely.

I suppose keeping an eye on a comatose comrade didn't leave him much time to wander around. The reminder of his efforts on my behalf makes me a little ashamed of my reluctance to help him aid another shipmate.

I tear open the package and start wolfing down the contents. Food is supposed to taste better the hungrier you are, but I scarcely taste it at all for swallowing so fast. As I'm licking crumbs out of the package, I notice Carth staring at me expectantly. No doubt he expects some kind of response to his mission, hoping I will bravely stand forward and say 'Yes, lieutenant, I'm with you to the bitter end. We will rescue Bastila or die trying.' But I can't, I can't make myself go along with his crazy plan just like that. I suppose I'm just a coward after all. So I take the cowardly way out and stall for more time.

"I need to use the 'fresher," I mutter, struggling to my feet. Carth makes a slight movement to help me, but I manage to stand up on my own and stagger to the small refresher in the back, closing the door behind me.

Once inside, I clutch the sink and stare blankly into the mirror. Two or three days worth of stubble give me an unkempt appearance, but I'm wearing clean clothes and there's no dirt or blood on my face despite the faint scratches I clearly picked up in the crash. Carth must have changed and washed me while I was unconscious, an awkward detail I'd rather not think about. After a short search of the small room, I find a straight razor. I wonder why it's here at all, since Carth's own stubble has turned into a thin beard since the battle.

I splash water on my face and work up a lather with soap, then very carefully place the knife against my skin, slowly scraping the whiskers off. I'm very conscious of the sharp blade against my skin, and how even a slight slip will bring a fount of blood. It's rather how I've felt for a long time now, as if I've been evading a razor edge of danger that always comes skin close to taking my life. My days as a small-time trader in the less civilized parts of the galaxy, the rather less legal trading of the last few years, and finally my recent and short stint as a soldier, all conspired to put a razor edge to my throat, and I have always fled from it, usually barely escaping with my life.

But now this lunatic officer of mine wants me to stop fleeing the knife and instead push it up against my own throat. I curse quietly as my suddenly trembling hand causes me to nick myself under the jaw. I firm my grip on the hilt and continue to shave, ignoring the trickle of blood dribbling down my neck. Control, Taryn, control; you have to control yourself or you make mistakes. Perhaps that's how Carth does it. He takes the knife in his own hands so it is under his control, using the danger to accomplish what he needs to do like the razor shaving my face clean.

Bah! The man is deranged, trying to get himself killed with only the faintest chance of success. After cleaning the last stray hairs, I put down the blade and strip off my clothes before stepping into the shower. The warm water running over my body feels delicious. Carth must think he's some kind of hero from a story or something. Well, I suppose he is a hero at that, with a list of medals and commendations for bravery in combat longer than my arm. The other soldiers on the _Endar Spire_ told almost mythical stories about his exploits as a soldier and star-pilot in the mess, seeming thrilled to be on a mission with him. Then there were the few veterans who had actually served with him before; their stories were less exaggerated but somehow even more impressive. I suppose if there's anyone in the galaxy who could get the better of an entire army single-handed, it's Carth. And he said he needed my help.

To my shock, I realize I'm trying to convince myself to do it, to help Carth rescue Bastila from the clutches of the sith. I should just let Carth do it himself, he's the hero after all. I'm just a small time former smuggler with a single battle under his belt. I don't even know where we would begin; I can think of a thousand difficulties and problems we might run into and precious few solutions to most of them. I suppose Carth might have a few ideas, since he's had time to investigate a bit and he's done this kind of thing before. But he thought he would need my help.

I close my eyes and stand with warm water parting over my head and running down either side of my body, soothing my aching muscles. Watershed, that's where I am, this is a watershed point. I have to decide one way or the other: do I abandon the man who saved my life and try to escape this planet on my own, or do I join him and try to make this desperate proposal work with a strong likelihood of death in the offing? The right and noble thing to do is to make the attempt to save the Republic, no matter the cost to myself. I desperately want to do the right and noble thing, but just the thought makes my knees feel weak. I can't help wishing I could just curl up in a hidden corner of the galaxy somewhere and wait for this whole wretched war to end.

But I can't do that. There's no corner deep enough to escape this war, and no place to hide from my own mind. I have to decide, and if Carth Onasi of all the people in the galaxy says it's possible, then it just might be possible. In any case, I doubt I would ever be able to live with myself if I abandoned him after everything he's done for me. Which means, regardless of my doubts and fears, I will help Carth find Bastila and smuggle her off the Taris. Maybe my smuggling experience will help after all, and who knows? Maybe I'll even get a medal of my own out of it. There'd better be a silver lining in here somewhere.

Having made a decision takes a huge load off my mind, as if I was carrying a huge stone on my shoulders without realizing it until it was gone. I breathe easier and my mind starts working more clearly, starting to form vague plans instead of excuses. The fear is still there, and I'm not any more eager to throw myself in harm's way, but the fear is not controlling me anymore. My hand is on the razor's hilt.

I would like to just luxuriate in the shower for a while longer, but now that I have a mission I'm too eager to get started. Turning off the water, I step out and dry myself off. I notice my dull red jacket and black pants hanging in the back, cleaned and even mended. Somehow it gives me a slight boost to my confidence to still have my favorite garb. Shaved, clean, and properly attired, I step out of the refresher.

Carth is reading his datapad again when I return to the apartment's anteroom, and he looks up as I enter.

"Feeling better?" he asks without a trace of animosity in his voice, though I wouldn't blame him if there was, "I know that..."

"Before you say anything, I'm sorry for being difficult. It's just that..." No, I'm not going to make excuses, "I can't say I think much of our chances, but I'll do my best to help you find Bastila and get her off Taris."

"I didn't expect anything less, Taryn," Carth smiles.

"So, er, what have you found out so far?" I ask, taking a seat.

"Right to business, excellent," he says, brandishing his datapad, "While you were out I did some scouting around. From what I can gather, most of the escape pods from the _Endar Spire_ crashed in the Undercity, the lowest levels of Taris. That's probably a good place to start. They seem to have all landed within a few hundred kilometers of each other and they're all east of here, which narrows down our search, but it's still a lot of territory to cover."

"We're obviously not the only ones looking for those pods," I say, "What have the sith been up to since they took control?"

"They've mostly entrenched themselves in the upper city and taken control of the major transportation systems. I believe they've sent patrols into the Undercity to find the pods, but I'm fairly certain they haven't found Bastila yet. Even if they didn't announce her capture outright there would be a lot of excited chatter on sith com channels if they did."

"Hmm...maybe you'd better explain local politics a little bit," I respond, trying to form a clear picture of what we have to face, "What's this about an under city and an upper city?"

"Well they're not official terms, but Taris is roughly divided into three levels with very different cultures. The upper city is where the official government has control, and there's a lot of wealth and affluence here. All the starports and reputable businesses are in the upper city.

"Then there's the lower city, which is the slum of Tarisian society. It's segregated from the upper city by limited transportations systems, all of which used to be controlled by the upper city citizens but are now run by the sith. There are some businesses and a lot of people just trying to make a living, but mostly the lower city is run by swoop bike gangs waging a never ending war for control.

"The Undercity is the almost forgotten part of Taris. It's at the planet's actual surface, among the foundations of all the buildings. The Undercity is where the Tarisians throw all their undesirables, and people who go down are generally never allowed back up again," he shakes his head sadly, "The Undercity sounds like a very dangerous place, and apparently it's overrun by mindless, diseased mutants called rakghouls. We'll have to make sure we're prepared when we go down there."

I chew on that for a few moments, "What about the locals? Any chance of getting help from them?"

"There's definitely some resentment toward foreign invaders on Taris, and most people are unhappy about the quarantine that's freezing all trade and off-world business," Carth thinks for a moment, "But I haven't heard about any kind of underground resistance or anything. Taris was attacked and occupied seven years ago by the Mandalorians, and I get the impression Taris doesn't want to deal with that kind of bloodshed a second time. Taris only recently joined the Republic, near the beginning of the Mandalorian War, so there's not a lot of innate loyalty or patriotism either."

I grunt sourly; there goes one hope. Money can always buy help of one kind or another, but unless Carth has some secret reserve we don't have nearly enough for bribes.

"What kind of resources do we have?" I ask him, "Money, supplies, contacts..."

"I have less money than you do," he replies, "The only local contacts I know are Republic officers and officials who have been killed or taken prisoner. All we have are my blasters, the emergency pack from the pod, and the small armory you brought with you from the _Spire_."

Embarrassed by the amusement in his voice with the last comment, I try to keep from blushing. I don't know what you're supposed to do in a fight, I just figured more weapons would give me a better chance of getting out alive.

"Isn't it proper soldiering tradition to take spoils from the field of battle?" I grumble.

"Not when you're abandoning a sinking ship," Carth chuckles, "but it all worked out in the end. We might make a few credits by selling what we don't need."

"I think we'll need more information before we try to go to the Undercity," I suggest, trying to get back on subject, "We can't possibly wander hundreds of square kilometers of dark wasteland looking for those escape pods. I also think we should find out how difficult it is to get down there, since it sounds like the sith control the transportation network."

"Good idea," Carth nods encouragingly, "I've found out about all I can through the public nets, but we might learn more by walking the streets and talking to the locals. Cantinas might be a good place go. Just remember to keep a low profile. I've heard some grim stories about the Dark Jedi interrogation techniques. They say the Force can do terrible things to a mind; it can wipe away your memories and destroy your very identity. But if we're careful, we should be okay."

"Thanks for the encouragement," I respond as I stand back up. Unfortunately, I'm assaulted by sudden light-headedness and my legs start reminding me that they're still a little weak from several days with no food, water, or exercise. I try not to let on, but Carth isn't fooled.

"Whoa, I don't think you're quite ready to start running around the city yet," he says, grabbing my arm, "Why don't you take a few hours to get your feet back under you? A couple more hours won't make much difference to our search at this point, and you won't be much help if you collapse on me."

Now that I've gotten myself psyched up to get started I'm reluctant to agree with him, but my body is sending me some pretty clear signals and I've learned that my body usually knows what it's talking about.

"I suppose you're right," I concede. I glance at Carth and for the first time notice how haggard he appears, "Maybe you should get some sleep, Carth. I've had enough for days and you look like you need it."

"A few hours of shut-eye wouldn't go amiss," Carth agrees, "It's only just after noon local time, so it's a little early to hit the cantinas in any case. We'll get started when the sun starts setting. Just keep your eyes open for trouble and don't hesitate to wake me if anything happens."

I assure him I will and he slips into the apartment's second bedroom. Shortly after, a rumbling snore starts vibrating through the door. Apparently veteran soldiers can fall asleep on a moment's notice, and aren't particular about changing out of their clothes before they do so. I hope his snoring doesn't get too annoying, but if I think about it too much I'll never be able to tune it out.

I start pacing the length of the room, trying to build up my strength again. Waiting was always the most difficult thing for me to do. Even filling the hours with monotonous repairs or physical labor is better than just sitting around. I'm not one to just enjoy staring at scenery for too long – I'd always rather be working on something.

Although the scenery from this apartment isn't altogether unpleasant, I reflect. A forest of silver skyscrapers stretches out as far as the eye can see, each one rounded and glittering. It's like looking at a vast, intricate sculpture of silver jewelry with the low clouds reflecting an orange and pink light over the whole array. Coruscant has a lot of impressive and beautiful buildings but it also has a lot of ugly and utilitarian ones. Taris, on the other hand, appears to have been built by skilled designers from the ground up with the intent to impress.

That said, there are signs that all is not as beautiful and well-managed as its designers imply. Close examination shows that many of the buildings are falling into a shabby state of repair. The colored sky, beautiful though it is, is surely the result of poorly-managed pollution from the vast metropolis. The stunning veneer of Taris hides a multitude of problems, and I suspect Carth's description of the place only hints at the kinds of trouble we might find, even if we manage to evade the sith.

Trouble might even find its way to this apartment, abandoned wreck though it is. With that thought, I stop pacing and set about trying to improve the security of our new home. That ought to fill up a couple of hours. To my disgust, the lock on this place could be bypassed by any two-bit slicer, or worse, a simple blaster shot. For a while, I lose myself in the work of making the place a safe haven for us to use while we hunt for Bastila.

It takes an unfortunately short time to finish shoring it up as best as I can with the limited parts and tools available. I hope Carth doesn't really need that datapad; I saved the memory module and we can always get new one. I also went through two more of those field rations, and there are only two left. Food will have to be a top priority when we leave. For all of that, evening won't really be here for a couple more hours.

Searching for something to do, I come across the small pile of blasters, swords, and grenades I picked up on the _Spire_. I don't really want to have to use any of it again, but it's best to be prepared for the worst, especially since it sounds like our job is to go hunting for the worst. There's the combat armor I was wearing; I wonder if I can fit it on under my jacket. With a little work, I manage to get my jacket over the vest. Despite the armor's bulk, it's fairly inconspicuous.

Trying to decide which of the weapons to take, I holster a blaster to my waist. If you look armed and dangerous, most thieves and bullies will decide you're not worth the risk. If you also look poor, the rest will decide you're not worth the effort. After a little hesitation, I secure several grenades under my jacket. It makes me nervous to have explosives strapped to my body, but I made sure they can't be triggered accidentally and it might be nice to have a few surprises available for the kind of trouble that can't be scared off.

I notice Trask's longsword in the pile and gingerly pick it up. Just having it is a reminder of his sacrifice for me, and his death at the hands of the Sith. I can't help remembering the sight of his mangled corpse lying at the feet of the black-robed jedi, even if I only saw it in a nightmare. I should keep this, keep it as a reminder of the price paid for my life. I don't think anyone else has ever given up so much for me, though in a sense he did it out of duty to the Republic, not for me. Which I suppose means I owe my life to the Republic. I wish my feelings were as grateful as my thoughts, but I will keep Trask's sword.

Unfortunately, a weapon this large will look a little out of place on city streets; swords like this say 'trouble', not 'self-defense'. A short vibroblade in the pile catches my eye, and I pick it up. Now this is the kind of thing that can be kept inconspicuous. It's actually pretty good craftsmanship, though I don't see any manufacturer's stamp on it. A little shabby in appearance, but it's made of a good alloy and has a very modern oscillation module. It's just short enough to fit under my clothes on the outside of my thigh, so I can keep it concealed, too.

My interest piqued, I break open the oscillation module and take a closer look. Well made, but I think I can squeeze a little more power out of it if I make a few adjustments. Sitting down, I again lose myself in the work. It's difficult to do such fine adjustments with only improvised tools, but solving the challenge is like therapy for me. It's relaxing, which I feel like I deserve after the events of the last few days. At least, it's relaxing until the shouting starts.

The noise starts rather suddenly with loud, demanding shouts that penetrate the walls, which are followed by a general commotion that increases rather more slowly in volume. I freeze when the shouting starts, then quickly finish my work with the vibroblade and get up quietly to wake Carth. Before I get to his door, it opens and Carth is standing in front of me, looking a little rumpled but alert.

"What's going on?" he asks me quietly.

"I don't know," I reply, "It just started a few seconds ago. I was about to wake you."

Carth waves the explanation away and motions me to follow him toward the apartment's main door. After a moment, he opens it quietly and we both peer out.

The apartment building is cylindrical, like most of the skyscrapers on Taris, with apartments forming a ring on the outside, so the hallway is curved and only a short length of it is visible. Just where the corridor curves beyond sight, a couple dozen meters away, a crowd of people are huddling together and muttering loudly. It's a very mixed crowd, with quarren, ithorians, duros, twileks, rodians, and other species all babbling in as many languages.

There's not a single human in the group, though, except for a dark skinned man wearing a black and grey uniform and flanked by a pair of humanoid robots holding blaster rifles. The human stands a few paces from the rest and is facing toward them, and away from us, with his rifle leveled menacingly. I recognize his voice as the one who was making the shouts that started the whole thing, and by his uniform he's a sith soldier.

"I said to be quiet, you alien scum!" he bellows at them, as if sheer volume can break through the language barrier, "And get up against the wall. This is a raid!"

One of the duros at the fore of the crowd speaks up loudly in durese, "[There was a patrol here just yesterday, and they found nothing! Why do you sith keep bothering us?]"

I don't know whether or not the sith understands him, although durese is probably the most broadly known language in the galaxy next to basic, but his response can't be misunderstood. The sith raises his weapon to his shoulder and without a word puts a blaster shot between the duros' eyes. The crowd goes deathly silent and stares in horror. Another duros gives a cry and goes to his knees, clutching the corpse to his chest.

"That's how we sith deal with smart-mouth aliens," the sith growls, "Now the rest of you get up against the wall before I lose my temper again!"

Much as I hate to see these people being abused and murdered, we're going to have serious problems if we're found here, and the apartment may not be a safe place to hide. As silently as I can, I start slipping along the wall and down the hallway in the other direction, trying to signal Carth to follow. He doesn't seem to see me, though, glaring at the sith's back with his hands on his blasters. To my horror, Carth pulls his weapons out with a flourish and begins stepping toward the soldier's back. I hiss with fear and anger and grab him by the sleeve to pull him away, but he shakes me off with a brief motion and a quickly-stifled grunt. Unfortunately, the sith hears our short scuffle and turns around on his heel, blaster at the ready.

"What's this?" he barks, "Humans, hiding out with aliens?"

I freeze, then slowly lift my hands up to show that we mean no harm. Hopefully he doesn't notice Carth's drawn blasters.

"We're just refugees, sir," I say, keeping my voice as clear and innocent as I can, "We don't want to cause any problems."

"Refugees, my ass," the sith laughs, "The only humans on Taris who would be hiding in an alien-infested apartment are running from the Exchange or the sith, and either way today's my lucky day. Droids, take them!"

Carth doesn't wait for them to move. Quick as lightning he levels his blasters and sends several well-aimed shots toward the trio, injuring one of the droids. The sith officer and the droids start shooting in our direction, but Carth takes cover in our apartment's doorframe, and I turn my raised hands into a low summersault that ducks me beneath their shots. Halfway through congratulating myself on this brilliant maneuver, I realize that it also brings me a lot closer to those blasters.

To my relief, the sith is soon distracted by the duros whose companion had been killed earlier, who draws a short blade and launches himself at the officer with a ululating shout. I'm too close to use my blaster now, and seeing the sith off balance I make a quick sprint toward them while clumsily drawing my vibroblade. Hoping fervently that speed and armor will protect me from their shots, I close the distance in moments and bring my blade slashing through the body of the crippled droid. The vibrating blade buries itself in the metal and plastic of the droid with surprising ease, sending a shower of sparks against the wall as the machine collapses to the floor.

The second droid turns to fire its blaster at me at point blank range, and I have no idea how it manages to miss. Desperately I bring my blade around to cleanly slice half the blaster's barrel off. The droid stupidly continues trying to shoot me with its now-defunct weapon. I quickly send it the way of its cohort and turn to face the officer. All I see is a corpse lying face down with several blaster marks in its back. The duros who joined the fight still holds his weapon, panting.

"[Poor Ixgil,]" the duros moans, looking at his fallen friend, "[He should never have talked back to that sith.]"

He looks from me to Carth, who is walking up to us with his blasters holstered again, "[Thank you for your help, humans. I am glad to have at least gotten revenge for Ixgil's death.]"

"What's he saying?" Carth asks me curiously. It take me a moment to realize that Carth must not speak durese and another moment to translate for him.

"[I'm glad we could help,]" I then reply to our new acquaintance, making the peculiar palms-raised hand motion that is the equivalent of a bow among the duros. The slight knot of guilt in the pit of my stomach reminds me that if I had my way, we would have let this sith murder as many of these people as he liked.

Looking worriedly at Carth I say, "This is bad. What do we do when someone comes looking for him?"

Carth flips the corpse on its back with his toe, leaving the man staring blank-eyed up at us with an expression of pain and anger frozen on his face. I don't know how Carth can do that so casually; the very sight makes me nauseous.

"I doubt he was on a planned patrol," Carth muses, "A single officer with only a pair of antiquated battle droids? No, I suspect the sith have thousands of men combing the city on the chance of finding...something interesting. No one has accurate maps of a city as large as Taris, so his superiors probably only have a general idea of where he was patrolling."

"[Your friend is right,]" the duros interjects, "[There are patrols all over the city, and they often take advantage of their authority. I will move the bodies so it looks like they were killed elsewhere, and that will throw the sith off track. No one here will say anything, either. They have no love for the sith and they all saw what you did for us.]"

"[Thank you,]" I reply, both relieved and a little miffed at being wrong, "[You are quite helpful to a couple of uninvited strangers among you.]"

"[This isn't the first time the sith have caused trouble for us, but Force willing it will be the last. It usually means trouble for us when humans try to hide out here, but I think you will be welcome here.]"

I think he's right; as I briefly translate for Carth I overhear a lot of approving murmurs in the dispersing crowd. I think we just made friends of the neighbors, an invaluable asset if we're going to be hiding amongst them. I admit I'm rather surprised how well Carth's 'direct confrontation' approach to problem solving seems to be working out.

"[Forgive me for saying so,]" I ask the duros, "[but I don't see any humans in this apartment. Why is that?]"

The duros takes on an expression that can only be distaste, "[This is the upper city, human. By law on Taris, only humans are allowed in the upper city with a very few exceptions. This midden-heap of a planet is one of the most xenophobic in the galaxy, or at least the most xenophobic I've ever visited.

"This apartment building is a run-down section of upper Taris, and somewhere along the way the owner turned it into a kind of hotel for visiting 'aliens'. Technically illegal, but the Tarisian authorities turned a blind eye. They didn't mind so long as we were all isolated from the rest of the city and never showed our faces in daylight.]"

Yet another hidden problem on this picture-perfect planet. I'm surprised a place whose wealth is based so heavily on trade can afford to be so intolerant of foreigners.

"[What about the sith?]" I ask, "[Didn't things change a bit when they took over?]"

"[The sith haven't bothered to change any of the laws, though a few hoped they would. Instead, many of them take the excuse of Tarisian laws to act out their own prejudices. Ixgil and I would have been off this cursed world two days ago if it weren't for the thrice-damned quarantine.]"

The duros lets out a noise that I interpret as something between anguish and anger, "[I should go take care of the body, human. I do not ask who you are or why you are here; it is better I don't know. But I don't think anyone will contest your right to that apartment. It's been abandoned since that fwit decided to make its home there. May the Force be with you.]"

I murmer a farewell to the duros, then relay the information to Carth.

"Excellent," says Carth, sounding pleased with himself, "I think this will work out as a good base of operations."

"What did he mean about a fwit in our apartment?" I ask.

"Is that what it was called? There was some vicious little creature that made an awful racket when I dragged you in there looking for a place to hide. It tried to chase me off, but I didn't have time to find another place, so I got rid of the thing."

I shake my head. Carth seems to take a certain amount of violence as a matter of course. I suppose a veteran soldier can't be squeamish about these things, but I can't make myself treat it so blithely. It makes me wonder if his attitude will rub off on me.

"Well, now that we're up and out," Carth continues, "I suppose we can go ahead and...where are you going, Taryn?"

"According to both that sith and the duros, no humans live in this building," I explain to him as I walk down the hall toward one particular door, "So why did I see a human woman peeking out of this apartment a few moments ago?"

"She's probably hiding from something, just like us," he says as he catches up with me, "It seems there's plenty to hide from on Taris, but it's unlikely she has anything to do with us. I don't know what you intend, but I don't think we should start breaking into people's rooms."

"That's just sloppy," I tell him flatly, eager to prove my worth for once, "All it takes is one hole in our security and the sith will be crawling all over us. And speaking of security, memorize this code to our apartment. Make sure you don't get it wrong, or the door will give you a bit of a shock and lock down for fifteen minutes."

"When did you have time to...no, never mind," Carth sighs and pockets the slip of paper I handed him, "Just be careful. Scared, nervous people can do stupid, violent things if they feel startled or threatened."

"Careful is my middle name," I assure him as I knock loudly on the door. I'm not nearly as confident as I make myself sound, but I want Carth to think I might actually be useful instead of just dead weight. I just have to talk to this person, sound her out and get an sense of whether she might inform on us or not. If she's a threat to us...well we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

There's no answer, so I knock again and add in a loud voice, "Hello in there! We don't mean you any harm. We just want to talk, neighbor to neighbor."

Only silence answers me. Well, the lock on this door looks the same as the one that used to be on the door to our apartment. Should only take me a few seconds to...there. The door slides open to reveal an apartment that could be twin to our own, though it has its own unique pattern of scuff marks and cracking.

"Hello?" I say as unthreateningly as I can manage while stepping slowly inside. Carth stays right beside me. He appears relaxed and his hands aren't anywhere near his weapons, but I get the impression he's ready to draw them in an instant.

"Who are you?" demands a low voice behind us, "What are you doing in here?"

Startled, I jump around to find the woman I saw earlier poised by the door and holding a vibroblade in trembling hands. I think she's a pretty woman, but life seems to have left her rather worse for the wear: her clothing is worn and dirty, her face is creased with worry, and she is shaking with fear and weariness. The weapon in her hands doesn't do wonders for my confidence, but I can't help feeling sorry for her.

"We're not going to hurt you! I would appreciate it if you didn't hurt us either," I say hastily, but as calmly as I can manage. People usually don't feel as threatened by you if you express some vulnerability.

"We're sorry for the intrusion, ma'am," Carth adds, "We couldn't help wondering why a human was living in this particular apartment."

"That's no excuse!" she says sharply, but she slightly relaxes her grip on the vibroblade, "You can't just go barging into people's apartments because you're curious."

I have to turn this conversation around, or it will end with us beating a hasty retreat and not learning a thing, "Is this a rough neighborhood? You seem pretty edgy."

"No...not exactly," she replies, uncertainty replacing her defensive demeanor, "But there's always...I mean the Exchange is here, and you can't be too careful."

She looks like she's about to try to push us out again, so I interrupt, "Well we're not with the Exchange. We just want to talk."

I hesitate for a moment, wondering how much to give away, but she must already know we live here after that incident with the sith patrol, "We just moved in and I thought it might be nice to talk with the only other human in the building."

"You're offworlders, aren't you? Maybe you're not...well you're more polite than that pig Holdan, at least," the woman sighs and lowers her weapon. Internally I breathe out a sigh of relief.

"Who's Holdan?" Carths asks.

"Just one of Davik's men who can't keep his hands to himself," her voice rises with a note of anger now and she gestures with her weapon, "But all he got for his trouble was a nasty scar from my vibroblade. Too bad _I'm_ the one still paying the price."

I can't help feeling a surge of anger myself. There's no excuse for men behaving like that toward any woman, whatever their relationship. Men like this Holdan deserve worse than what she gave to him. But that still doesn't tell me what I need to know.

"How are you still paying the price?" I ask, "Didn't he leave you alone?"

The woman hesitates again, seeming to regret having said so much, "I...I don't really want to talk about it. I'm in enough trouble already."

Better try another approach then, "I'm sorry, I don't want to ask for more than you're willing to tell. We are from off-world. Maybe you could tell us a little about this place? Show us around, perhaps?"

She shakes her head at the last part, "No, no I don't want to leave this building. I don't want to leave this room if I can help it. I don't think I can help you much; I'm actually from the lower city. If you want my advice, don't go down there. Even being imprisoned in this run-down apartment is better than life in the lower city. And make sure you stay away from Davik Kang and his Exchange thugs."

Davik, she mentioned that name a moment ago. The pieces finally click into place: this Holdan, who tried to force himself on her, works for the local Exchange boss. Holdan probably black-listed her, maybe has some of his fellow thugs trying to kill her for injuring him. There's no question now that this woman is no threat to us; she won't leave this apartment and doesn't have any connections with the outside world. The question now is what to do next, to simply leave and ignore her or try to coax out more information and help her if possible. Carth looks like he's figured it out too, and I have to speak up before he attempts to pry into her troubles and ends up scaring her again.

"Well, thank you anyway. I understand that you don't want people butting into your personal life," I tell her hurriedly, adding the second part for Carth's benefit, "Can we at least bring you some food while we're out? You can't have much if you stay in your rooms all the time."

"I manage," she says suspiciously, "I'm not giving you any credits."

"No, no, we're not trying to take your money. I just meant, if we get some food for you may we bring it by later?"

She hesitates, clearly not sure what to make of this sort of random generosity. I'm not sure what to make of it either. We aren't exactly rolling in money and we're on a mission which doesn't involve making friendly with the neighbors, but I can't just ignore her now that I know her situation.

"I...I guess that would be alright. Who are you, anyway?"

"People call me Lars," I tell her smoothly. It's not a lie; I often went by Lars when I was smuggling.

"And I'm Carn," Carth says a few seconds later. He clearly sees the necessity of not using our real names, but I don't think he likes being dishonest. Which is why it's nice to have several names so you can keep your identity hidden while telling nothing but the truth.

"My name's Dia," the woman sighs after a moment of us looking at her expectantly, "Now if you'll please leave, I...I think it would be best if you left me alone."

"Of course," Carth assures her, "It was nice to meet you."

"And be sure to knock next time," Dia adds as we walk out the door. I refrain from reminding her that we did, in fact, knock this time as well. I can see she's caught between the desire to be left to her misery and the desire to talk to someone after days or weeks of loneliness.

"Well?" Carth asks me pointedly after a minute of standing in the corridor.

"Well what?" I rejoin cleverly.

"What was your reading on her? Do you believe her?" Carth responds patiently.

"I'm sure she won't turn us in to anyone. I think she's exactly what she appears to be: a poor woman from the lower city who ran afoul of an Exchange member and is hiding here for her life."

Carth raises an eyebrow at me with a curious expression, "Are you...interested in her?"

Shock hits me with this casual query, followed hard on its heels by embarrassment, "What? No! I mean, she's a pretty woman, but I'm not the type to..." Now I'm babbling, blast it. I take a breath and continue in a more relaxed tone, "Whatever you see on the holovids, not all smugglers are charming scoundrels always chasing after women."

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes with a slight smile, but also a bit of puzzlement, "You sounded concerned, and that was the only reason I could think someone with your background would care about a down-and-out woman you just met."

"My service records don't tell you my life story," I grunt, "Maybe you shouldn't jump to conclusions so quickly."

Carth looks a little angry for a moment, but then he swallows whatever he was going to say and instead replies, "If you're satisfied with our security now, maybe we should be about our mission."

Our mission. Find Bastila and get off this rock. I still wish I were more enthusiastic about the first part. Well, if Carth can swallow his apparent dislike for smugglers, I can swallow my dislike for suicide missions. At least getting information from the cantinas will be a nice change of pace. I haven't had a good cantina excursion since I enlisted more than a month ago.

I take a careful inventory of our appearance, since appearance will be vital on the streets. My vibroblade needs to be adjusted to keep it hidden, but other than that I'm ready to go. At least Carth had the presence of mind to change out of his orange Republic uniform, although the grey and olive-green clothing he found still has a military flavor. There's no hiding his soldier's posture in any case, nor the competence with which he wears his blasters. It won't hurt for him to look like a military man; there are enough mercenaries and retired war veterans wandering the galaxy to make it commonplace.

"Let's go," I tell him, and we walk out of the building in mutually disgruntled silence. We try to walk out of the building. It seems impossible to get lost in a building with only a single, circular hallway, but we walk all the way around twice before we find the elevator. I spend most of the elevator ride down hoping that the rickety and complaining box doesn't break down on us, but eventually we step out onto the streets of upper Taris.

Taris is as attractive from street level as it is from the building tops, even in this run-down neighborhood. The air is rather cool but a warm breeze rises from below. It feels quite nice after the poorly ventilated confines of that old apartment. The setting sun turns the normally orange and pink sky into a vibrant painting that is only matched by the rarest of sunsets on most worlds. Considering the size of the city, there are very few vehicles filling the sky, which does a lot for appearances. If one has to live in a city, there are few prettier cities in the galaxy than this.

Carth leads the way across the wide plaza. It feels like solid ground, but in truth the so-called streets of Taris are a series of platforms and bridges suspended between the skyscrapers in a gravity-defying manner. It seems to fit with the shaped-from-crystal design of the whole city. The crowds are quite sparse, at least here, but the people move with the slow gait of people safe in their homes. Whatever the chaos and dangers of Taris, it doesn't seem to touch the upper city. Even the occasional sith patrols I see do not seem to be disrupting the life of the city.

"I think our best bet is to go to the downtown district of the capital sector. I visited it briefly while you were out. It's about a hundred kilometers northeast of here, so we'll take the train," Carth finally explains as he leads me along a series of bridges, plazas and tunnels. The capital sector will have more informed and well-connected people than anywhere else so it's a good idea, but there's no sense in stating the obvious and I keep my mouth shut.

A small group of sith soldiers and droids clustered around a large black shape on the edge of the plaza we're crossing catches my eye. The area they're standing around seems damaged, as if a giant put a huge dent in the platform with the swing of a colossal hammer. Some kind of airship crash, I suppose. A second glance at the dark shape makes me gasp.

"Carth, is that our escape pod?" I say softly.

He only glances at it briefly before nodding, "Don't look at it. If they see you staring they might suspect us."

As if everyone who walks by doesn't stare at the crashed escape pod. We're more likely to attract suspicion if we pretend we don't see it than the other way around. It's a chilling sight. The pod's braking thrusters appear to have left a scorch mark along the plaza before it crashed and skid a short distance, stopping only a meter or two from the edge. These platforms are hundreds of meters up, and we would not likely have survived a fall over the edge. Sometimes the edge of that razor cuts very close.

"Now I'm glad I don't remember the crash. How did we survive?"

"I guess the Force was with us," Carth says, looking rather uneasy himself. I stare at him with surprise. Carth is no Jedi, why would he make a comment like that?

"Do you believe in the Force, Carth?"

"It's hard not to believe in the Force when you've seen a Jedi fight off a squad of armored Mandalorians single-handed, or change the tide of a battle without moving a muscle," Carth says with a forced laugh, "But there must be some reason that we survived the crash, and that our pod landed in the upper city when almost every other pod landed in the Undercity. What else could it be?"

I shrug, "I figured you flew us down here. You're a crack pilot, aren't you?"

"Escape pods don't fly, Taryn. They fall," he says grimly, "Most of the time they slow you down enough to survive the sudden stop at the end. All I did was point us in the general direction of land. Do you not believe in the Force?"

"I don't know. I guess I never really thought about it much. The Force is for Jedi and the occasional hermit – it doesn't have anything to do with regular people."

"Believe whatever you want," Carth says, "I'm not trying to convert you or anything, but maybe you'll see a few things yourself in this war. Ah, here's the station."

We pay the ticket droid, carefully ignore the sith soldiers standing guard, and board the repulsor-train when it arrives a few minutes later. It's not too expensive, but it will put a dent in our limited funds if we have to use public transit very often. Idly, I wonder if the Republic will compensate for our expenses on this mission. Cash is always short in the Republic these days, but surely the rescue of Bastila is important enough to afford some petty cash reimbursement. Well the main thing is to actually rescue her, and for that we will have to address the cash problem pretty soon.

Unlike the elevator on our apartment, the train is still well-maintained and functions smoothly and quietly. It's not very crowded, so Carth and I find a pair of seats in a corner where we can talk without being overheard. The trip will take about twenty minutes, so I make myself comfortable and enjoy being off my feet. I wouldn't normally be worn out yet, but I'm not fully recovered from the crash and a couple days on my back.

There's not much to look at as the train races through the bowels of Taris, so I find my thoughts drifting back to the sight of our escape pod and Carth's talk about the Force. Now that I think on it, it's strange that I've never given the Force or Jedi much thought considering the impact they have on galactic events. I can't even remember ever having met a Jedi, which is odd considering how many places in the galaxy I've visited. Result of the well-known Jedi preference for seclusion and privacy, I suppose. Even on the _Endar Spire_ they always kept to themselves, most of the time with the hoods up on their robes so you couldn't even see their faces. I don't even know what Bastila looks like, for all that she was in charge of the mission.

"What do you know about Bastila?" I ask Carth quietly.

"Why do you want to know?" he replies.

"Just thought it might be good to know a little about this Jedi we're looking for," I shrug, "I mean I've heard about her on the holonets. She's 'the secret weapon of the Republic', and 'her Battle Meditation can turn the tide of any battle and will lead the Republic fleets to victory against the malicious Sith Empire.' To be honest, it sounds like the hyped-up propaganda of a desperate government. How powerful is she really?"

"Not as all-powerful as the holonets make her sound, perhaps, but she is the best hope we have to defeat the sith. Battle Meditation is a rare Jedi talent that can influence entire armies. Through the Force Bastila can inspire her allies with confidence and make her enemies lose their will to fight. A fleet under the influence of her abilities will act with amazing coordination and courage," Carth shakes his head in wonder, "Even fighting with Revan in the Mandalorian War I never saw anything like what Bastila can do. It's a subtle effect that you almost don't notice – soldiers don't turn into giants or all become Jedi like some rumors say – but it's very real and very effective."

"So how did we lose the fight for the _Endar Spire_ with Bastila on board?" I ask the obvious question.

"There are limits to what she can do. From what I understand, it requires great concentration and focus to maintain her Battle Meditation. The attack on the _Endar Spire _happened so fast she probably never even had a chance to use her power. She's not a super-weapon, either. The influence of her abilities can only do so much to affect a battle, and we were out-massed almost twenty to one in that fight besides being caught by surprise."

We pause for a minute as the train comes into a stop and a number of new passengers board. Once I'm sure no one will overhear us I continue, "So how good is she without any armies or fleets to back her up? She's a Jedi and all, but do you think she could survive on her own?"

"Bastila may be young, but she has a powerful command of the Force. She was part of the strike team that killed Darth Revan a few months back, so she is likely a match for any Dark Jedi she might encounter. There's a whole army looking for her though, and no Jedi is invincible."

"Young, is she? So inexperienced as well?"

"Perhaps a little," Carth frowns, thinking, "This war has given her more experiences than anyone deserves in a lifetime. To tell the truth, I didn't really get to know her that well, but like all Jedi she can be aloof and demanding at times. You should be glad you weren't part of the staff meetings on the _Spire _– Bastila and the other Jedi struck some sparks with the officers insisting on all kinds of details without any explanations."

This job is sounding more and more fun by the minute. Even if we do manage to find Bastila, it sounds like we'll have to deal with the dangerous combination of inexperience and overconfidence. Hopefully her abilities as a Jedi will make up for it.

Before too long we arrive at our stop and quickly disembark. Wandering through the packed crowds of the station, we eventually find our way up onto the city streets. This part of Taris looks very similar to the section we left before, with the same rounded silver skyscrapers and curving bridges and platforms between them. The towers seem larger in this part of the city, though, and the crowds are definitely much heavier. There's the sense of bustle and life that marks this as a location of importance. There's also a lot of noise.

"This way, we'll go to the cantina I visited earlier," Carth says, speaking loudly over the crowd. He leads me through the crowds in the fading sunlight. We have to dodge a few luxury landspeeders that make their way laboriously through the crowd, presumably carrying someone of great importance since most people are walking.

A few minutes later we arrive at the cantina. It looks like the kind of place a soldier like Carth would prefer – a boisterous bar where rough soldiers can get a drink and enjoy themselves, but not sleezy enough to have a criminal element. It's not at all the kind of place to get the information we need or find useful connections.

"That's no good," I tell Carth, leaning close so he can hear me, "We won't make any progress in a joint like that."

"Do you have a better idea?"

I glance down the long plaza with lights and signs from a hundred different businesses, "Follow me. I'll know it when I see it."

We walk for a while down the long street. Shops, cantinas, restaurants, and businesses too obscure to identify cluster in the various buildings. If I had the desire and the money I could buy anything from Alderaanian wine to Kuati speeders to ancient Selkath medicinal cures for any ailment. I keep my eyes open for the occasional shop that might be of some use to us at one point, but mostly I'm scrutinizing the various cantinas scattered along the way.

We walk almost a kilometer before I find it – a large place that takes up several entire levels of a tower all by itself. Aside from it's well-maintained appearance there's absolutely nothing distinguishing about it. While almost every other business has colored signs, lights, and holographic posters advertising themselves, this place has only a simple sign reading 'Cantina' over the entrance. On a place more run-down and seedier this would mean it was a cheap hovel that couldn't be bothered with anything better. On a more elegant and refined place it would have spoken of elitism and the snobbish upper class. Instead it says loudly that this is a cantina fully confident of its own importance and influence with no need to advertise itself. This is where we'll find what we need.

"This is it," I tell Carth.

"Are you sure?" he responds dubiously, "It doesn't look very special."

"Which is why it will be full of knowledgeable locals instead of tourists and drunks," I tell him, "Come on."

"All right, you're the expert," he says resignedly.

There's a sith soldier in silver full-body armor and helmet standing by the door, but he doesn't appear to be stopping anyone. Taking a deep breath, I march past him and through the open door. He doesn't even glance at us. With a grin, I breathe again and step confidently into the cantina.


	3. Chapter 3 : Highs and Lows

* * *

**Special Order No. 3**

**Taris Occupation Force**

The search for Bastila Shan will take priority over all other considerations. Every other objective is of tertiary significance. No effort is to be spared to find her as swiftly as possible, by personal order of Lord Malak. To this end, all members of the occupation force will adhere to the following instructions on pain of death or severe disciplinary action:

1. All division commanders will send reports to Occupation Force Headquarters every twelve hours detailing what measures have been taken to find Bastila and what progress has been made in the search. Officers who repeatedly fail to put forth sufficient effort will be replaced.

2. All granting of leave is hereby curtailed until successful completion of the search. Furthermore, duty shifts will be increased from eight hours to ten hours per day. New duty rosters must be drawn up to accommodate this increase. If the search continues too long, duty shifts are subject to further increases.

3. The number of guards on duty at all guard posts, bases, and redoubts will be reduced to half of standard complement and the extra manpower used for patrols and other appropriate measures to facilitate the search. The checkpoints at spaceports, lower city elevators, and Undercity elevators are not included and must continue to be strongly garrisoned. Additionally, each of these checkpoints must have at least one officer on duty who has been thoroughly briefed on Bastila's description.

4. The identity of our target will be a strictly guarded secret. The rank and file will be given a physical description only and told that she is a Jedi of personal interest to Lord Malak. Further information about Bastila and the chosen cover story will be provided by Sith Intelligence Command.

5. All personnel must be instructed to notify their superiors before attempting a confrontation if they suspect they have identified Bastila. She is to be taken alive by any means necessary. If she cannot be taken alive, surveillance is preferable to execution.

6. Patrols led by officers may act on reasonable suspicion to search citizens' homes, businesses, or other property. Any citizen found aiding and abetting Bastila or any other Republic fugitives is to be arrested and brought to Occupation Force Headquarters. Any officers or men found to be abusing these powers will be subject to severe punishment. The citizens are not to be antagonized needlessly or excessively, and their cooperation is to be courted as far as possible.

7. All patrols into the lower city must be sufficiently large and well armed to fight off the gangs infesting the region. The gangs are not to be provoked into an all-out war against us which will hinder our search. Undercover operatives and Special Forces must form the basis of searching in this region of the planet, with heavy patrols moving quickly and in force to act on any intelligence gained.

8. Patrols into the Undercity must be large and well-prepared to fight off the mutant inhabitants. The sentient inhabitants are no threat and may be treated however the officer in command sees fit. Patrols are to thoroughly scout all territory within fifty kilometers of each crashed Republic escape pod. Patrols beyond this limit are not recommended, and the manpower is better spent elsewhere unless credible leads are found.

By order of General Arganza, Governor of Taris and Sith of the Order of Korriban

* * *

Still grinning, I stop in the crowded atrium to get my bearings. The lights are moderately dim, but after the failing light of dusk it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. It's a large cantina as such things go, with the main room more than ten meters high and wide enough for it to feel low. Stairways lead up to several large balconies in various corners, and wide arches open onto still more rooms further back. Despite its size, the cantina is crowded at this time of day, with people filling every table, bar, and counter. There must be several thousand in here, though what sets this place apart from every other major cantina in the galaxy is the fact that every single person is a human.

"Let's go see what we can find out," I tell Carth, eying the rows of tables to the left where coins ring and cards flash in a hundred games of pazaak.

"Just keep your fingers light," Carth says, "We'll be hurting if you lose your entire purse here. I'll get a drink and try a few of the more…lubricated patrons."

With that, he saunters off to the bar. I chuckle softly, all but rubbing my hands together. He thinks I'll pour credits down the gambling drain to get a few tidbits, but he clearly never saw the games on the mess deck of the _Spire_. True, I prefer the strategy of a good game of dejarik, but I can play a mean hand of pazaak as well. There's too much chance involved to win all the time, but a careful counting of the probabilities means I win more than I lose. A certain amount of luck helps too, and when my luck hits and I can practically call the cards before they land. Strategy, luck, and a good deck of cards will win me a nice pile of credits while I talk up the locals ever so casually.

I reach into my jacket for my side deck and find…nothing. Frantically, I start searching my other pockets for it. Did Carth take it out when he cleaned my clothes and forget to put it back? Where in the galaxy could it…with a groan I stop searching and squeeze my eyes shut as memory returns. Of course, I left it in my uniform pocket on the _Spire_. The deck I spent three years and hundreds of credits building, and now it's a puff of vapor in the skies overhead. Blast the sith, and blast me for a fool! I can't believe I didn't grab it when I left. It was the only personal possession I brought with me into the Fleet aside from the clothes on my back.

Sighing, I navigate through the crowd to a vending droid and shell out the credits for a basic deck. There's no help for it, I'll just have to settle for strategy and luck this evening. Maybe it will be enough. I spend a few minutes watching the players at their games. Most of them are just playing to relax, often betting only decicreds or less. That suits me well enough; they will be more inclined to talk and it will give me a chance to warm up to the game. When one gaudily dressed man leaves his partner to wander over to the bar, I slide over and take his seat. The other man gives me a brief smile as he shuffles his deck and without a word passes it to me to split. I pass him my deck in turn and we start the game.

There's a real art to getting information from people without letting them know what you're doing. Fortunately it's an art I learned well while travelling the galaxy and I warm quickly to the work. I play only a few hands with any one person, moving casually from table to table. With only half my mind on the cards, I mostly just listen to the other player talk. Some are slow to speak while others ramble freely about the banalities of their personal lives, but with a friendly comment or a casual query I can usually guide the conversation to something relevant. After an hour I've gleaned a nice harvest of trivia and opinions that may be useful, and more importantly I have a sense of the city's pulse. Incidentally, I also have a few more credits than I started with. I take a brief break to get a cup of caf from the bar when Carth finds me.

"Well, if it isn't the pazaak shark," he says with a smile, "I'm no more than a mediocre player myself, but it looks like you know what you're doing."

"On occasion," I smile back, "How is it going at the bars? What did you learn other than that the locals have poor taste in music?"

"Only that Tarisian Ale has more kick than an angry bantha. I'm not having any luck, and to tell the truth I don't really know how we're supposed to find anything out," he glances around and drops his voice, "It's not like I can just go up to people and ask them if they know where to find Bastila."

"I think," I my voice carefully steadily, "that we should avoid using dangerous names from now on, even if no one appears to be listening."

Carth stares at me for a moment, then barks a humorless laugh, "Here I thought I was the suspicious one, but you're absolutely paranoid."

"I'm also alive, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"No, you're right. Best to be cautious," he sighs, "How about you? Did your luck with cards extend to some useful information?"

"Let's see," I tick the points off on my fingers, "First, you were right about the local attitude toward the shinies."

"The shinies?" Carth asks with a chuckle.

"You know," I knock my fist on an invisible silver helmet, "The shinies. Everyone's upset about the quarantine, and they can see it will wreak havoc with the economy if things don't change soon. Opinions seem mixed about the shinies themselves, though, and no one is willing to take action against them. Second, it appears that the Exchange is more important that I thought. Davik Kang has his claws sunk into both the lower and upper city and is almost as powerful as the Tarisian government. Third, it appears some kind of major war broke out between the lower city gangs a few weeks ago."

I pause to take a sip of caf before continuing, "Lastly, some hints about…the princess. I'm afraid it's a good-news, bad-news drill. The good news is that she's probably safe from the shinies."

"And the bad news?" Carth asks grimly.

"It's because she was probably found by the Exchange or the swoop gangs first."

"Either of which might sell her to the shinies," he points out.

"Well, that's true," I respond, a little deflated. I hadn't thought of that and it makes my news less valuable than I believed, "There's still the possibility that she escaped them all and is hiding on her own."

"So we still don't have any idea where she might be," Carth sighs, "Maybe we should head out to find a way into the lower city before full dark. We might learn more there."

"We've only been here an hour," I protest, "It takes time to make good contacts, and if we rush into the lower city we're likely to get caught by the shinies, or end up lost in the middle of a war. We need some kind of direction and plan."

He looks at me thoughtfully for a minute, "You really think you know what you're doing, don't you? You think you know better than your superior officer who has ten years and two major wars worth of experience on you?"

That brings me up short. I color slightly, realizing I have overstepped my bounds. I may be new at this soldier thing, but an experienced warrior and a hero like Carth certainly deserves my respect, especially since this is his mission.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Carth forestalls my stammered apology, "This isn't the first time I've followed a younger man who knew what had to be done. This kind of thing really isn't my specialty, anyway; I'm more used to taking action. So, what do you suggest?"

The sudden turn-about and compliment leave me a little bewildered, but behind the confusion my mind races to put together a plan, "I want to head back to the pazaak tables. There's more information and credits to be had there. You can…see if you can find someone from a planet-side observatory, or an amateur astronomer."

"You planning to take up a new hobby?"

"They may have telemetry data on the…lost eggs from our ship. If we know where they landed, it narrows our search considerably."

Carth eyes me with respect, "That's a good idea. I'll see if I can find someone, or at least learn of someone we can look up tomorrow."

I drain the rest of my caf then shove the mug back to the bartender before returning to the pazaak tables. Feeling a little more confident now, I jump into some higher stakes games, with nobles and merchants casually betting a day's wages with every hand. I'm handicapped by my sub-par deck, but still manage to win a few more games than I lose. I continue moving from table to table, probing and listening for useful information or contacts.

"This quarantine will destroy my business," laments one native businesswoman as she glares at her cards, "Why don't these damn sith go back to whatever hole they crawled from?"

"You should be careful what you say," I tell her mildly, "They are the people in charge now."

"Hah!" she snorts before tossing back and emptying her glass, "Don't tell me you're one of those pathetic gizka who think the sith are the wave of progress and the future. Do you remember how they bombed Telos and a dozen other worlds into the stone ages? That's not progress."

"Oh, I've got more affection for the wart on my backside than the sith," I confide truthfully, "It's just too bad no one has been able to _do_ anything about them."

"What is there to do? There's no chance of resisting. Even the doc says all we can do is pray that the Republic will be able to break the blockade."

That perks my ears right up. Deliberately, I draw another card instead of standing so that I lose the play to her. With feigned casualness I ask, "Who's the doc?"

She gives me a shrewd look as she takes the play. Maybe she isn't as tipsy as I thought.

"You're not a sith spy, are you?" she asks.

I give her a rueful grin and spread my hands, "Yep, you got me. I'm here to arrest you on suspicion of being a decent person."

She laughs loudly, "…oh, that was good. I should send you to visit the doc; he's been too stressed since the occupation."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Doc Forn runs a medical clinic a couple klicks south of here. He keeps his prices low so everyone can afford him, and you won't find a better doctor on Taris. I donate to him occasionally and we talk sometimes. Doc has always favored the Republic, and he pushed for years for Taris to apply for membership. Since the invasion, though, he's struggling just to keep his clinic open."

We both lapse into silence and return to the game. I suspect now that she would be insulted if I threw the game to her, so I play my best. After a couple lucky breaks, I manage to come from behind to win the hand. My opponent laughs cheerfully as she passes me the wager.

"You're pretty good, stranger. You should try playing Niklos over there," she gestures over my shoulder at a richly dressed man with a well-trimmed beard and a smug smile on his face.

"Who's he?"

"A noble of the Ultar family. He has nothing to do with his time, so he spends it all playing pazaak here. He may be an arrogant prick, but unfortunately he's also by far the best I've ever had the displeasure of playing against. No one here can beat him more than once or twice."

I muse for a moment on the image of that nobleman sitting alone at his table like he owns the place and defying anyone to play against him.

"I just might take you up on that," I mutter.

My partner grins, "Tell you what, I'll loan you my deck if you want to challenge him. If you manage to grind him into the dirt, I'll even let you keep it."

With a grateful smile, I take her deck, stride confidently over to Niklos's table and drop assertively into the seat. His voice is every bit as arrogant as his face, "You wish to challenge Niklos, offworlder? I warn you, I do not lose very often."

"Care to put your money where your mouth is?" I ask him, slapping twenty credits on the table. It's a large sum for a single game, but I'm feeling confident.

Niklos sneers, "I'm going to enjoy relieving you of your credits almost as much as I'm going to enjoy humiliating you."

His sneer turns sour when I win the hand three minutes later.

"You were lucky," he scoffs, "but luck is no substitute for skill in pazaak. Care to risk another hand, offworlder?"

Wordlessly I double my wager and we begin another hand. Even with my borrowed side deck, Niklos has superior cards, and he definitely knows how to play the odds, but my luck is with me tonight in spectacular style. Every guess about his hand turns out correct, and every risky call lands in my favor. I don't lose once as we play hand after hand.

As we begin the second hand, a crowd starts to gather around the table. Mostly other pazaak players who have doubtless lost to Niklos in the past, they begin cheering and whooping as I beat him time after time. As the boisterous crowd grows my spirits soar, but I keep my face calm and stay silent despite the applause and back-slapping. Niklos grows angrier and angrier as we play. He progresses from condescending to patronizing to muttering to swearing. Finally, he slams his hands on the table and stands up abruptly. The crowd suddenly goes silent.

"I do not lose at pazaak," he growls, "but you have made a habit of beating me. It is obvious what this means – you cheat!"

The watchers wait to see how I will respond as I lean back in my chair and look him in the eyes.

"I had hoped a skillful player like yourself would be a graceful loser," I tell him sadly, "Perhaps you should switch from pazaak to chasing ladies; then you might get used to it."

The crowd explodes in laughter. No one listens to Niklos's continued accusations – everyone is glad to see him lose and probably wouldn't have minded if I did cheat. Humiliated, he storms out of the cantina, leaving me to fend off congratulations. I extract myself from the crowd as gracefully as I can and move toward one of the bars. There won't be any more pazaak tonight after beating the local champion. I catch the eye of the woman who lent me her deck, and she gives me a cheerful wave while happily collecting money from several of the other watchers. I never did learn her name.

While counting my winnings for the night – more than two hundred credits, a very tidy sum and more than I started with – I feel a soft touch on my arm. I turn to find a curly haired blond woman resting her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her golden earrings frame a face made up like a beauty pageant entry and her shimmering dress, which I suppose is the latest fashion, shows off far too much leg and cleavage.

"That was an amazing match against Niklos. I bet you could make a lot of credits as a professional pazaak player!" she flatters, then looks me up and down admiringly, "You know, you're my kind of guy; rich and handsome – just the way I like them."

She presses herself against me and leans closer to whisper in my ear, "Why don't you buy me a drink? If you play your cards right, pazaak might not be the only game you get lucky at tonight."

I start looking myself over as if searching for something.

"What's the matter, honey?" she coos, "What did you lose?"

"I'm sorry," I tell her in a perplexed tone, "Do you see the word 'gullible' written on me somewhere?"

She actually stops to look! I shake her hand off and leave her standing there looking both confused and shocked. I'd forgotten how much women like her annoy me. Part of me can scarcely believe that anyone would fall for her act. The other part of me is my suddenly racing heart – the traitorous bastard. Irritated, I weave between the crowded tables into one of the tap rooms, then stop and look around for Carth. An assertive tug on my sleeve interrupts me.

"You there!" An imperious woman's voice demands, "Where are those drinks we ordered?"

A couple of young noblewomen are sitting at the table next to me. The haughtier of the two is glaring at me as if I'm failing some vital duty. What have I gotten into now? Who does she think I am? My buoyant mood from winning the pazaak game is rapidly evaporating, and it looks like I have yet another arrogant noble to deal with now.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am?" I ask her tiredly, but as politely as I can manage.

"Our drinks. Why is the help here so incompetent?"

"Sorry, I'm not your waiter," I try to placate her, but she appears determined to make the universe conform to her whim.

"Do you know who I am? One word from daddy and I could get you fired! Now get us those drinks."

"Ma'am, I can't help you because I don't work here. I'm sure your waiter will bring your drinks soon."

"How dare you speak to me like that!" she sounds as if I personally affronted her in some grievous manner, "Daddy's going to hear about this!"

She stands up, with her nose literally in the air, and stalks out of the tap room and toward the exit. After a moment, her companion follows her after giving me a dirty, disdainful look. I stare after them in shock. I was as diplomatic and polite as anyone could wish, and yet she still got angry with me. This is not the kind of attention we can afford; it could bring both the local authorities and the sith down on us. I should have been more conciliatory, but I'll be burned if I can see how.

Some of the patrons are looking around at me to see what the commotion is about. Avoiding their eyes, I hurry over to the bar and drop onto the only empty stool. I'm sorely tempted to order something hard, but ask instead for another cup of caf. A strong cup.

"Women!" I mutter to myself. First that blond schutta tries to con me, then that spoiled aristocrat decides I'm her personal slave. For that matter there's Bastila too, who is forcing me into this whole mess even though I've never met her.

A professionally dressed man with dark hair sitting next to me hears my comment and turns with a sympathetic smile, "Having problems with the fairer sex?"

"Oh, you know how it goes," I sigh and drink deeply – the burning pain of the hot drink helps me bring my mind back into focus, "Do you ever get the feeling that women believe it's your purpose to serve their every desire?"

"Ha! That's not a feeling, it's a fact," he laughs, "It doesn't matter whether you're at home or on the job, they make your life miserable."

"You can say that again," I murmur. My burst of irritation is under control again, but I decide to keep this conversation alive.

"Let me tell you, though," he continues, "You haven't seen anything until you've met a Sith woman. I swear there's nothing in the galaxy worse. Now, I'm not talking about the sith soldiers, though they're bad enough. You give a woman a lightsaber and black robes, and she turns into a fiend that makes a Hutt look like a saint. They glare at you like something that crawled out from under a rock, and rip your heart out if you so much as look at them crossways."

"Are there many here on Taris? All I've seen are soldiers."

"Oh, they're here," he says mournfully, "I work for the Intergalactic Relations Department, and I've seen more Dark Jedi in the last few days than anyone deserves in a lifetime."

My 'useful contact' alarm is going off full bore, so I toss the bartender a credit and tell him to bring drinks for us.

"Call me Lars, by the way," I tell my new friend, offering my hand.

"Rhys Coreen," he grasps my hand genially, "Assistant Department Liaison Officer."

The drinks arrive shortly and he takes an appreciative gulp. I pretend to drink as well, then casually push the cup to the side.

"So what are you doing on Taris?" he asks, "You sound like you're from off world."

"I was passing through on business. Ended up trapped here by the quarantine," I answer truthfully. There's no need to mention that it was military business and that I ended up here by being shot out of the sky.

"Oh, the quarantine," he groans, "Everyone complains about the quarantine. I have to listen to people gripe and whine about it all day, but there's not a thing we can do. It's the sith's decision, not ours."

"Do they tell you why?"

"They say they're rooting out Republic spies. Who knows how long that's supposed to take, or whether it's even the real reason."

Rhys stares at a large monitor behind the bar. It has stopped showing advertisements and news bulletins and instead is announcing a match in 'Taris's premier dueling ring'. Rhys appears somewhat interested, so I watch as the commentator introduces – with overblown fanfare – the two duelists. The first is a short man with graying hair and a worn face who bounces on his toes and waves over-enthusiastically to the camera. The commentator names him 'Deadeye' Duncan. The second duelist is a man in his late thirties with dark hair and a confident expression named Gerlon 'Two-fingers'. His most noticeable feature is that the first two fingers on his right hand are missing – he caresses his blaster with his left hand.

"So have the sith caught any spies yet?" I ask Rhys as we watch.

"Oh, they've arrested a few thousand people they say are spies," he answers absentmindedly, "I think some are escaped Republic soldiers, but I expect most just rubbed some officer the wrong way. It's a damned shame, but the Secretary is too afraid to even file a formal complaint."

"I hadn't realized how rough this invasion was on you government people. It's no picnic being trapped here, but at least the sith generally leave most of us alone. You have to deal with them every day," I commiserate, then gently try to probe his loyalties, "It's too bad the Republic hasn't sent reinforcements."

"I would give anything to see the sith gone," he sighs, "but for now we just have to put up with them."

The dueling commentator is discussing the betting on the game, and I'm surprised to notice that the dueling ring is located in this very cantina. Gerlon is the heavy favorite, which doesn't surprise me since Duncan comes across as a bumbling fool who is kept around to amuse the crowd. The amount of betting is very lackluster, but I wonder if I might make some more money on these duels since I'm done with pazaak for the night. It's more of a gamble, though, since I have no influence on the outcome, and I don't like heavy risks.

"So who's your favorite?" I ask Rhys, referring to the duel.

"Oh, Gerlon's going to win this match. Marl's my favorite, but that crazy bug-eyed Twitch has been beating him recently. I used to bet on the matches, but they've gotten stale lately. No surprises anymore."

On the view screen the match is about to start. The camera zooms around the circular arena pit, panning over the mostly-empty seats above it before settling on the two duelists squaring off from opposite sides of the arena. The commentator is giving his spiel about the two duelists again, trying in vain to get the watchers excited. Finally, he announces the start of the duel and a buzzer sounds. The graying Duncan whips out his blaster, and in his haste drops it to the ground. He looks around wildly for his weapon for a moment, then bends over to pick it up. In the meantime, Gerlon draws his own blaster, looking only a little awkward using his off hand, and takes careful aim. Three blazes of red light race across the ring to hit the crouching Duncan, who collapses on his face with a cry. It's all over in fifteen seconds, and the commentator is announcing the winner and by rote assures the crowd that Duncan is only injured.

"Well…" I say judiciously, "That was pretty pathetic."

"Yeah, Duncan's good for a laugh sometimes, but that was just sad. I was hoping for some entertainment to relieve the stress, but I guess I'll just have to settle for another drink."

"Allow me," I say, paying the bartender.

"Hey, thanks," Rhys says, "Just one more though. I have to make a run down to the lower city in an hour."

"They let you go to the lower city?" I ask, surprised, "I thought the sith had it locked down."

"Like a high-security prison," he confirms, "They have checkpoints and bunkers at every elevator and you need a pass from a division commander to get through. I'm on business though – checking up on one of our offices down below."

"Is there any chance I could get a pass?" I ask him.

"Only if you want to enlist with the sith," he chuckles grimly, "Aside from the sith soldiers the only people they let through are some government employees and a few mercenaries they've hired."

I sense someone standing behind me and turn to find Carth waiting patiently a couple meters away. I wave him over with a smile, "Hey Carn, come on over. Rhys, this is my companion. Carn, this is Rhys. He works for the Tarisian government."

They exchange polite nods. I bite my tongue with indecision – Rhys might be able to help us get to the lower city, but he might also decide to turn us in. I hate to take to take risks with such little information, but I may hate myself more if I let this opportunity disappear. My preference is for the cautious approach, yet delay might be as dangerous as detection, at least for Bastila. At last, I decide to use Carth's presence to cajole some help out of my new friend.

"Hey, I hate to unload my problems on you Rhys," I begin, watching him for a reaction. He doesn't look enthusiastic, but neither does he look eager to escape so I continue, "We're looking for someone we think is trapped below the upper city. We're trying to get down there, but the sith seem to be determined to keep us out."

"Who is it you're looking for?" Rhys asks.

"Another offworlder. We came here on the same ship. To tell you the truth, my comrade here has a…special interest in this young woman, if you know what I mean."

Rhys grins widely and gives Carth a knowing glance. Carth tries to keep his face blank, but his faint blush fits in perfectly.

"He's really concerned about her safety with the sith occupation and the gang war going on," I continue, "We're kind of desperate to find her."

"Well, I'd help you out if I could," Rhys says slowly, "but there's really nothing I can do. Only people on official business are allowed through."

"I understand," I sigh, "but if there's anything you can do, please let me know. I'll be happy to compensate you for your trouble."

That's a code phrase for 'bribe', of course, but if I have the measure of this man he won't find that objectionable. With the decay on this world and the Exchange running rampant, I expect corruption is the norm on Taris.

"Well, I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do," he thinks for a few moments, "I'll be here tomorrow evening for an hour or two after sundown. Does that work for you?"

"Great!" I grin, "Thanks, Rhys, I really appreciate it. I'll see you here tomorrow evening."

Rhys finishes his drink and we shake hands before he walks away. Carth takes his seat a moment later and I turn to grin at him.

"Not bad, eh?" I ask him.

"Do you really think we can trust him?" Carth looks suspiciously at Rhys' retreating back.

"Not completely," I answer, surprised by Carth's sudden mistrustfulness, "but he doesn't like the… the shinies and he has access to the lower city. I thought it was worth the risk."

"Maybe," he sounds doubtful, "Was it really necessary to make all that up about me and…and her, though?"

"Make what up?" I ask him innocently, "I told him nothing but the truth."

"The truth? You said that I…"

"I said that you had special interest in her, and you do. If he assumed I meant romantic interest, that's his problem."

Carth stares at me for a minute, then chuckles wryly, "You are a sly one, you are. I'll have to be careful trying to mince words with you. Did you find out anything else?"

"A few leads," I tell him what I learned about Doctor Forn and lower city security, then mention in passing the success I had with pazaak, "How about you?"

Carth grins and pulls out a data module, "I had the luck to find the president of the Tarisian State University's astronomy club. He was thoroughly delighted to find someone interested in his club's project to plot the recent space battle. I have here coordinates for every pod to a hundred meters accuracy."

I share in his grin and push him my still-full cup. That's far better than I had expected, we just might be able to do this. My smile fades as I remember that getting to the Undercity and finding the pods is only the beginning – we still have to actually find Bastila, and then get her off the planet. These are only the foothills of the mountain before us.

"I'm still concerned about our funds," I tell him soberly. My head is starting to ache again, reminding me that I was comatose not twelve hours ago, "I have enough to satisfy that fellow, but we may need to bribe others."

"I have an idea about that," Carth answers, "Did you see the duel on the monitors a little while ago?"

"Yes, but I'm not betting on duels. High risks and no profit margins."

"Not betting," he agrees, "I'm wondering how much the duelists make on their matches."

"You want to fight in a dueling ring?" I ask incredulously. Carth didn't strike me as the type to get involved in low entertainment like arena fighting, even the non-lethal kind.

"Normally I wouldn't get into fights for credits, but we need the money and I think I can handle the half-trained amateurs they give the floor to now."

"I don't know, Mister War-Hero," I add wryly, "You might have trouble with Mister Trips-Over-His-Own-Feet Duncan. Maybe you should ask for a handicap."

"You're probably right," he chuckles, "Do you think it would be enough if I fought him blindfolded?"

"Still sounds mismatched. If you were blindfolded, bound hand and foot, and unarmed, he just might have a chance."

"Oh stop, you'll make me blush," Carth mars his sarcasm with a relaxed smile as he stands up, "With you cheering for me, how can I lose?"

It feels good to be joking around with someone when it's not just a polite façade. It's almost like having a friend.

It doesn't take long to find the arena down a pair of wide, curved stairways. The arena is underneath the main level of the cantina, preceded by a large anteroom filled with monitors, booths for arena tickets, and dozens of betting windows. All the booths and windows but one are empty now, and the few remaining patrons are meandering back up the stairs. I'm shocked to see a Hutt filling the organizer's chair with its enormous, slug-like body. Shocked both because it's the first non-human I've seen in the cantina aside from a trio of Twi'lek dancers upstairs and because I've had a number of unpleasant encounters with Hutts. Not that it's possible to have a pleasant encounter with a Hutt.

"Stay with me," Carth says quietly, pulling me along with him, "Your language abilities might come in handy here."

I'll agree with that much, at least. The creature has a small, round translator droid hovering behind it, but it's never wise to trust a Hutt's own translator.

"[The betting windows are closed,]" it rumbles to Carth in Huttese, with the droid squawking out a translation. I listen carefully to the Hutt's words and absent-mindedly try to pick out any discrepancies in the translation, "[No more fights tonight.]"

"I'm not here to bet," Carth answers, "I want to fight in the duels."

"[If it pays well.]" I interject in Huttese. Getting the guttural accent right is a bit hard on the throat, but I want to make sure this thing knows we won't be easily duped. It spares me a brief glance before turning back to Carth with a considering look.

"[Hmmm…I do need new blood in the ring. People are sick of seeing the same duelists all the time. It's bad for business. But you? Hmmm…no, no I don't think you're duelist material.]"

This is the first time I've seen Carth look openly surprised, though it's little wonder considering the blunt and personal rejection. Before I can interject to rescue the situation, the Hutt turns its appraising gaze on me and I have to suppress an urge to flinch from those disgusting, penetrating eyes. Force, but I really dislike the Hutts.

"[It does pay well, human,]" It addresses me now, "[My name is Ajuur, the organizer of this arena. How would you like to step into the dueling ring?]"

"Me?!" Now it's my turn to be surprised.

"[Yes, you. I like what I see, human. You'll get the audience excited, and that makes me rich and happy. If you win, you get the standard contract of twenty-five percent of proceeds from the wagers. Are you interested?]"

I manage to avoid gaping openly, but only just. I'm not a fighter like Carth or these professional duelists; I'm barely competent to tell a sword's blade from its hilt. I only vaguely notice as Carth takes my arm and pulls me to the side.

"Well I wasn't expecting that," he mutters, having recovered his aplomb, "Do you want to do this? You don't have to, but there's nothing to be lost by trying and you can't be seriously injured with the suppressor fields active. It's your call, soldier."

Oh, _very_ good. First he gives me a free choice, then makes it sound risk free, and finally makes a subtle reminder of my duty as a Republic soldier. My admiration of his leadership is slightly spoiled by the twisting in my stomach at his words. Yes, except for the risk of extreme pain and very public humiliation, there's nothing to be lost at all. I'm about ready to just say no and move on from this farce when I remember our mission. I swore that I would help Carth find Bastila and get her off Taris, but if I balk at a competition like this, how will I react when the stakes are real? So I grit my teeth and whisper, "I'll do it."

I walk back to the Hutt and channel my anger into bargaining a better deal from the slimy thing. Anger is a good cure for fear.

"[Ajuur, you make profits from arena tickets and broadcasting as well as betting. Make it twenty-five percent of your total proceeds and we have a deal.]"

"[Ha ha ha! You're joking right? You are not that valuable human; I can always find someone else.]"

"[Twenty-five percent of wagers and tickets, then. If you could find new duelists you would have done it already, and I know your audience is shrinking.]"

"[No deal. If I pay you more, then everyone wants more. Twenty-five percent of wagers is my final offer.]"

I let out a frustrated hiss. Bargaining with a Hutt is like banging your head against a glacier; even if you make an impression it hurts far more than it's worth.

"[Oh very well, wagers it is. When do I start?]"

"[I can have a duel ready in an hour. But you need a nickname, like Ice or Deadeye or Twitch. Good nicknames make people bet more. Hmmm…what's a good nickname for you? You're an off-worlder. You're new here, people won't recognize you... I know! From now on in the duel ring you'll be the Mysterious Stranger!]"

I wasn't expecting to start so soon, but it's all to the better since time is of the essence. Using a nickname is a good idea too, in case the sith got a copy of records from the _Endar Spire_, although the Hutt obviously doesn't know that. I can work with 'The Mysterious Stranger'.

"[Good enough,]" I tell it.

"[Excellent!]" Ajuur rumbles, "[The duel will be in one hour, but I want you in the ring at least fifteen minutes before the start. People won't bet on what they haven't seen!]"

The thing calls an attendant who shows Carth and me through a side door and into a smaller antechamber where the duelists wait. To my relief, the omnipresent noise of cantina all but disappears when the door closes. There are half a dozen duelists lounging about, all human except for a green-skinned, bug-eyed rodian. I recognize Duncan and Gerlon from the match on the monitors. None of them appear friendly with each other and they give us frosty glances as we walk in, except for one grizzled old veteran who offers a respectful nod as he oils his vibroblade. I ignore them and go to a secluded corner with Carth.

"Are you ready?" Carth asks encouragingly.

"We'll find out," I reply noncommittally, "Do you have any idea why it wanted me as a duelist?"

"I admit I'm still not sure. Who knows what goes through the mind of a Hutt? You'll do fine though. You survived the battle on the ship, which alone shows you have a great deal of skill."

I refrain from telling him I only survived because of Trask's skill and sacrifice. It's not something I'm ready to talk about.

"I can see what's really going on here," I explain to Carth, "Ajuur doesn't want a fight – it wants a show. Probably picked me because I'll make an idiot out of myself and amuse the crowd, but if a show is what it wants then a show is what I'll give it."

A few minutes later, I send Carth to buy a few items for me and then begin to ready myself for the fight. I don't want to display my ineptitude to the other duelists by practicing with the sword or blaster, so I put my jacket and weapons to the side. For the next half hour I do stretches and calisthenics to limber up. After a short while, the graying Duncan begins ostentatiously practicing with his sword. Duncan will be my opponent in this duel.

When Carth returns with the items I asked for I quickly put them on, looking in mirror to make sure my costume has the desired effect. Carth gives me a few words of encouragement as I belt on my weapons, then after a moment's hesitation, offers me his custom-made blaster.

"It's a good weapon," he says as he hands it to me, "Just make sure you bring it back, alright?"

"I will," I answer solemnly, feeling more gratitude than I manage to express for his encouragement as much as for the blaster. Already I am beginning to respect Carth for more than his rank or reputation and his support means something. His confidence buoys me as I follow the attendant to the arena entry.

The arena is a circular pit about thirty meters across with coliseum-style seating in concentric tiers above. As I enter the ring I feel the tingling pressure from the suppressor field tighten over my skin, which will disperse high-energy hits to keep all our weapons strictly non-lethal. Only about a tenth of the thousand or so seats are full, but more are coming in every minute. An excited hush settles over the crowd as I enter – they want to see the newcomer. I do my best to satisfy their expectations.

I sweep into the ring clad in unadorned black with a black cap on my head and a thin dark cloak over my shoulders. Peering disinterestedly at the crowd, I adjust the dark shades covering my eyes. The crowd begins murmuring as I make a slow, confident circuit of the arena, peering around as if memorizing every detail, which incidentally I am. Coming back to my starting position, I lean casually against the wall of the pit and wait motionlessly for the start of the match. I cut an impressive figure if I do say so myself, fully living up to the moniker 'Mysterious Stranger'.

The crowd seems to agree, chattering excitedly and filing in until more than half the seats are occupied. On the monitors above, I note with satisfaction that the wagering rockets upward with my appearance. The odds were nearly three to one in my favor against poor Duncan before I walked in, but now they are greater than ten to one. It doesn't really matter to me how lopsided the odds are; I get paid based on the total wagers.

'Deadeye' Duncan enters shortly before the start. The announcer begins introducing him and he pumps his arms to the crowd, which responds with laughter and jeers. There's a more genuine applause when 'The Mysterious Stranger' is presented. I straighten up confidently and cast off my cloak with a flourish, then lazily raise a hand to acknowledge the crowd. The noise redoubles to a whooping cheer.

Finally the announcer wraps up his elaborate introduction and the buzzer sounds loudly. Duncan draws his vibroblade and runs at me while I whip out Carth's blaster and take deliberate aim. It only takes a few seconds to cross the small arena – although Duncan is certainly no sprinter – but my quick shot hits him square in the chest. He grunts like a kicked puppy as the diffused energy punches through his combat vest, but keeps lurching forward. Deciding at the last second not to fire again, I jump to the side as he swings his blade wildly. I remind myself firmly that the suppressor field will keep the blade from cutting skin and calmly dodge his second blow as well, making no attempt to attack in turn.

The crowd begins laughing and cheering as I continue to dance around poor Duncan like a matador with a bull. Dodging his attacks is like dodging a giant air-filled ball; unless he can catch me by surprise he has no chance. I feel sorry for the fellow, whose humiliation is etched on his face as I continue to toy with him, but this is what the crowd wants to see. Finally unwilling to draw it out any more, I spin around and end up behind him after one of his wilder swings. He gapes around wondering where I went for a fatal second in which I calmly raise my blaster and shoot him in the back of the head. He falls mercifully unconscious as the crowd enthusiastically cheers the finish.

I spare only a moment to give the crowd a lazy wave before bending down by my unconscious opponent. I'm struck by the sudden fear that I may have actually injured him – he is an older man – but am relieved to at least find a pulse. I shout tersely at the pair of medics to hurry, angry that they seem to be enjoying Duncan's predicament instead of doing their jobs and tending to him. Eventually I help them load Duncan onto a stretcher before pulling my cloak back on and stalking to the duelists' chamber.

Carth greets me with congratulations, which I hardly think I deserve against an opponent like Duncan, but I do feel pleased with my performance at least. I check a time piece and wonder if there's time for a second duel tonight. Carth and I walk into the main lobby where the hundreds of spectators are collecting their money from the betting windows. I make my way through the crowd, ignoring the greetings and reaching hands when they recognize me in my costume, as befits the enigmatic aura of the 'Mysterious Stranger'.

The Hutt chuckles approvingly as it hands me my purse, a respectable one hundred credits, saying it knew I would make a good duelist. The tone in its voice tells me it is referring to my performance rather than the fact that I beat Duncan in a fight. When Ajuur asks if I want another match tonight, I hesitate only a moment before silently nodding. He laughs and loudly announces to the room that The Mysterious Stranger will be taking on the veteran Gerlon Two-Fingers. The spectators respond enthusiastically and begin crowding back around the ticket booths and betting windows again. Turning around, I find a hundred pairs of eyes focused on me, and feeling that some kind of response is necessary I return their stares from behind my dark glasses before making a slight bow with a flourish of my cloak. I then stroll with forced casualness through the crowd and back into the duelists' chamber.

This match will be different; Gerlon is not a bumbling grease-grip that I can prance around with impunity. Exactly what kind of fighter he is, I'm not certain, so I approach the grizzled veteran who had seemed somewhat friendly earlier. He introduces himself as Marl, a former dueling champion who still holds the second rank despite his nearly fifty years. He's willing to talk and is friendly enough, although he only smiles and says "You'll have to learn that for yourself" when I ask him for tips on tactics with the other duelists. Marl does tell me that Gerlon 'Two Fingers' is a former soldier who was a very good contestant until a blaster accident burned off two of his fingers and injured his good hand. I thank him for his help and he wishes me luck.

The next hour is spent mostly in quiet meditation. I sit still with my eyes closed and try to relax and focus for the upcoming fight. My headache returns and tiredness is catching up with me as well, but I fend both of them off with caf provided by Carth. I should probably cut back on the stuff, but right now I need to be alert. The wait goes by much quicker this time, as things usually do the second time around. After my duel with Duncan I'm confident that I can handle Gerlon, although I'll have to cut back on the fancy moves this time. He may be a real fighter, but his handicap will throw off his aim and he's the second-lowest ranked duelist in the circle after all.

I enter the arena with my cloak billowing behind me and stop in the center to let the crowd get a good look, although I pretend to be thoroughly disinterested. I don't really have much respect for the crowd or their opinions, since they tend to be fickle and easily swayed by appearance and emotion. But an excited crowd bets more, which is the whole point of this exercise, and to tell the truth I find a certain euphoria in getting them to react so easily. Gerlon enters the arena shortly behind me, but he does little more than wave when his supporters cheer him. I retreat to my side of the ring and wait silently for the start of the match, cloak wrapped around me like a shadow.

As the announcer presents his spiel, I steal a glance at the monitors and see the odds nearly two to one in my favor. Not as heavy as against Duncan, but clearly the spectators consider Gerlon a fairly easy match. All the same, I collect my concentration and focus to be sure I don't make a mistake. When my name is announced, I again sweep off my cloak with a flourish, this time casting it on the ground in front of me to provide a tripping hazard in case Gerlon tries to rush me. Before it finishes settling to the ground, the buzzer sounds.

Gerlon and I both draw our blasters at the same moment and raise them to take careful aim. To avoid providing a standing target at close range, I slide to my right while trying to keep my arms steady. Gerlon does the same, so I fire a series of shots to unnerve him and spoil his own aim. He ducks before returning fire, but I avoid it easily. Within moments, we settle into a slow circling of the arena, shifting back and forth to present a difficult target while exchanging blaster rounds in rapid bursts or careful shots. I'm faster and keep up a more erratic pattern of movement than Gerlon, but to my chagrin he has better aim than I do even shooting with his left hand, and his light combat armor deflects the few hits I manage to make.

At first the crowd is excited by the duel as we trade hot blaster fire, and there are enough close calls and near hits to draw gasps and cheers. As five minutes turn into ten minutes and drag out into fifteen minutes with no real change, the spectators grow restless and distracted. For my part, I feel myself tiring and my head is beginning to ache again. My focus is threatened and I am growing frustrated, but I can't manage to break the stalemate.

Deciding I can't keep it up much longer, I risk everything on a new tactic. I change directions suddenly and sprint straight toward Gerlon while drawing my vibroblade. A sudden burst of pain in my ribs tells me I've been hit, but in the adrenaline rush I barely notice. My blade catches his arm and he stumbles back, dropping his blaster and pulling out his own sword. Pressing my sudden advantage, I pursue him with a series of quick if simple attacks. Gerlon staggers back defensively until he manages to disrupt my attacks and follows up with one of his own. Thrown on the defensive, I find myself hard pressed to avoid his sword and his superior strength threatens to overpower me. Summoning my last reserves, I return to the offensive and thrust past his defense to score a hit on his leg, only to find my blade knocked from my grasp. The next thing I know I'm staring hazily up from the ground with burning pain in my ribs, arm, and head. Roaring fills my ears, and the indistinct figures of a medic and Carth are leaning over me. It takes me a moment to realize what happened. I lost.

The medic tries to help me onto a stretcher, but even in my confused state I know I can't let myself be carried out of the arena. I clutch Carth's arm and struggle to my feet. Doing my best not to show how weak I am, I straighten my glasses and raise an arm to the audience. Surprisingly, a faint cheer goes up, but all that's on my mind now is getting out of here. Carth supports me as I limp out of the arena. The medic guides us into a small sickroom where I collapse onto the padded table. He insists that I stay put for at least half an hour as he gives me an injection and applies a salve to the injured areas. Carth doesn't say much, for which I am extremely grateful. Right now the only thing I want less than encouragement is sympathy. After the medic leaves, Carth admonishes me not to leave the room until he returns and slips out. I wonder halfheartedly where he is going, but my mind is elsewhere.

The suppressor field prevented serious injury from the fight, but being hit by a vibrosword still felt like a cross between a strike by a heavy staff and a whip. The physical pain isn't what bothers me, though. In fact my mood worsens as the pain fades. What burns far deeper than the bruises is the regret, the shame, and far above all the _failure_. Angry recriminations join blunt criticisms to overwhelm sickly justifications and drive home the anger and disgust I have with myself for failing. Failing to succeed, failing to know my limits, failing to control my pride. Depression, my old enemy, my old friend, settles over me like a black cloud. I close my eyes in the futile attempt to wait for the storm to pass.

It seems hours later, though the time piece says little more than half an hour, when Carth returns with a haversack slung over his shoulder. I rise to my feet on seeing him – more than ready to leave – with barely a twinge of pain. If only memories faded as quickly.

"I bought some food and a few other supplies," Carth explains, "If you've recovered we can head back to the apartment now."

"Recovered," I mutter the word scornfully before catching myself, "Let's just get out of here."

I remove my costume and tug my old jacket back on. Carth leads as we pick our way back through the cantina. The cold night air is refreshing, and the quiet midnight streets are a wonderful break from the noisy crowds. When we're far enough away that there's no one to overhear Carth decides to break the silence.

"There's no shame in losing, Taryn. He was a veteran and a decent fighter and you still nearly beat him."

That comment receives the sneer it deserves.

"You're still recovering from the crash, too," he continues, "To tell the truth, I'm surprised you did so well."

"Don't make excuses for me," I say bitterly, "I make none for myself."

"It's hardly the end of the galaxy," Carth tries a different tactic, "We found some good leads tonight and you made several hundred credits. Considering our situation, that's fantastic. Tomorrow we'll follow up on our leads and hopefully get passes to the lower city from your contact. We're doing well, and it's largely thanks to you."

I start to reply, but the sound of movement from a nearby alley catches my attention. From the night-shrouded passage two shadowed figures are rushing straight toward us. Their short vibroblades glitter menacingly with reflected light. Reflexively I leap back and claw for my blaster. The nearer shape darts low and bowls my legs out from under me. My blaster is knocked from my grasp and a heavy blow knocks the side of my head. I desperately grab the wrist holding the knife and struggle to keep it away from me. My assailant begins beating my arms to make me let go, but I grip tighter and twist as hard as I can. He lets out a loud cry of pain but I keep twisting until he snatches out a second blade and pushes it against my neck. I stop twisting immediately. When the blade presses harder against skin I release my hold completely. In the sudden pause I hear the thug muttering to himself in rodian, clearly not realizing I can understand.

"[You broke my arm, you warm-blooded milk-drinker. I'll enjoy teaching you a lesson, one limb at a time. Might not even leave you alive, whatever that damned noble wants.]"

My eyes widen with fear, and my left hand starts slowly reaching for my concealed vibroblade. Carth's face looms suddenly out of the dark and he presses his blaster to the back of the rodian's head, needlessly relocking the charge to make a menacing click.

"I suggest you think about your next move," Carth says conversationally, but with a hard edge I haven't heard before, "Think very carefully."

The rodian freezes, then turns his head very slowly to see Carth and beyond him the shape of his companion sprawled on the ground, either dead or unconscious. Slowly, the thug pulls his weapon away from my neck then releases it to clatter on the ground. Carth motions for him to stand up and step away from me. I clamber to my feet when he complies, massaging my arms.

"Now go get your friend and get out of here," Carth tells the rodian, "Hurry up or I may change my mind."

Carth watches him run over to his companion and drag him awkwardly away, following them with his blaster the whole time.

"I didn't expect muggers in the upper city," he says, "much less rodian ones. It's supposed to be safe up here."

"They weren't muggers," I explain as I retrieve my blaster, "They were hired by someone."

I wonder…there is a noble who might have reason to attack me. Niklos was humiliated pretty thoroughly when I beat him at pazaak. I peer toward the alley, wondering if the thugs' employer stuck around to see me 'taught a lesson'. Behind me, Carth produces a flashlight and shines it toward the shadowed passage. The sudden light reveals a young woman in expensive clothing incongruously crouching behind a garbage bin. To my surprise it's not Niklos but the haughty noblewoman from the tap room. When the light exposes her, she gives out a terrified shriek.

"Daddy!" she wails, darting out of the alley and up the street. Carth moves to run after her, but I grab him by the coat.

"Let her go!" I hiss, "Do you want to get caught chasing an upper-class girl down the street in the middle of the night?"

"I suppose you're right," he sounds vexed, "Why in the galaxy would she hire a couple of rodian thugs to attack us?"

"I…may have met her earlier," I mumble, "She thought I was her waiter and got upset when I politely corrected her."

"And she wants you killed for that?" he says incredulously, "What kind of planet is this?"

I just shake my head. I hadn't realized the nobility here was so touchy. Oh yes, Taryn, you're doing fantastic this evening. Humiliating yourself in the dueling ring wasn't enough; you had to go and start a personal vendetta with half the Tarisian aristocracy. Very well done, indeed. The galaxy will be saved in no time at this rate.

"Well I've been beat up enough for one night," I announce shortly, "Let's move out before someone starts asking questions, or fate decides I'm due for another beating."

The rest of the trip back to the apartment via the train is mercifully uneventful. Carth and I spend the journey in brooding silence. Well, Carth is probably just tired but I at least am brooding. I look forward to forgetting tonight's events in blissful sleep. Back in the dilapidated apartment we retire quickly to our respective rooms. I strip to my underclothes before collapsing into bed, but only because there's no way I can sleep while wearing a combat vest. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day. Then again, it might be a worse one.

* * *

Sunlight is pouring through the room's small window when I wake. My rest was untroubled, except that I dreamed again of being chased down the halls of the _Endar Spire_ and the Jedi woman finding me in that dark chamber. It must mean something, but curiosity cannot distract me for long. Last night's memories have not faded at all, and my black mood returns with the recollection.

It's only 0700 local time according to my personal communicator, but my body won't let me go back to sleep and my mind refuses to condone movement. I mentally review my actions of yesterday, from first waking up in this very bed to collapsing in it again last night. Every choice, every word is analyzed and critiqued. The more I think on them, the less satisfied I am. Each mistake is grimly catalogued and corrections are burned into my mind. When my stomach begins grumbling for food, I seize the pain and use it as a whip to further my efforts. I still don't move when Carth slides open the door and pokes in his head.

"Time to get moving, Taryn, it's 0800 already. There's a lot to do and I'll need your help," he waits a minute for a response, then adds, "You can't mope in here forever. I want to get started within the hour."

He closes the door, and moments later I hear the shower start. 'Moping', am I? I angrily toss the thought aside and return to my mental review with renewed vigor. We can't afford delay, but mistakes are just as deadly, and I intend to learn from every one of mine. I'll get up when I'm ready, not when Carth bloody Onasi tells me.

It's perhaps ten minutes later when Carth's voice explodes unexpectedly only a meter away from my ear. I bolt upright in the bed and stare at him.

"Get out of bed soldier!" he barks in a drill sergeant's voice, jerking off my blankets, "We start in fifteen minutes, even if that means you have to run through the streets stark naked!"

"I'm not going to…" I sputter.

"I didn't ask you for an argument, Specialist! I said _move_!"

Even my meager four weeks of Basic Training ingrained the proper response to that. I move. Only when I'm standing in the shower and washing a cut from a hasty shave do I start resisting again. But in truth it feels good to be taking action, even if I'm still angry at being pushed around. I consider stalling for a little to show that I won't be forced, but decide against it. Just in case he really meant that threat.

I step out of the small washroom buckling my blaster on and quickly grab one of the packaged meals Carth bought last night. Eating while lacing up boots is a tricky task, but I manage it somehow. I look up at Carth just in time to catch the sheathed sword he tosses at me. A closer look shows it to be a dulled practice blade.

"What is this, Carth?" I ask, intentionally not using his rank, "Are we going to fight off sith with practice swords and foil-packaged dinners?

"What we are going to do," he replies levelly, ignoring my impertinence, "Is practice so you're ready for a rematch with Gerlon."

"I'm not having a rematch," I say dismissively, "It was a mistake to accept that duel in the first place. Besides, we can't afford to waste any more time if we're going to find Bastila."

"You proved your worth yesterday," Carth says stubbornly, "but you're no good to me as you are. You need to get over this…this…whatever it is or we'll both wind up killed. Besides, the Mysterious Stranger is already scheduled for a rematch tonight."

"You already spoke to Ajuur?" Oh Force, he really means it.

"I did. We can't use blasters in here, but there's just enough room to practice some sword work. I'm no Echani blade master, but I can help you with the basics. Now let me see your stance."

I stare at the weapon in my hands and contemplate refusal. Cold logic says that Carth has a point; improved proficiency with the sword may be vital not just for the dueling ring but for whatever else we may encounter, like those thugs last night. As for the cost of a few hours of delay, I myself just argued that mistakes can be as deadly as delay. Sometimes you have to do what you'd rather not. Dropping the empty sheath on the ground, I grasp the practice sword in both hands and take up the 'ready' stance as best as I remember.

"Almost," Carth says, "More your feet a little further apart, and don't grip so hard. You'll wear yourself out that way. Now, defend."

He lunges toward me with his own practice weapon and I deflect it as best as I can. He continues, not doing anything too complicated or fast, but pushing harder with every move. I do my best to parry with the controlled, graceful forms I was taught, but my inexperience leaves me always reacting too slowly and clumsily. I have to fight hard not to resort to wild swings at every pass. Finally my reactions are too slow to stop him and I throw myself out of the way, crashing into a table and scattering the contents of Carth's haversack all over the floor.

Carth chuckles as he helps me up, "That's not exactly what I was looking for. You were supposed to block it with your sword. Where did you learn your sword work, anyway?"

"Basic Training. I only got two days of instruction in hand-to-hand and never touched a sword after, until the _Endar Spire_."

"Only two days?" he raises an eyebrow, "I'm surprised you remember as much as you do. Basic is supposed to include a full week of hand-to-hand instruction and six more weeks of regular practice."

"It was an accelerated version," I mutter, stretching out my limbs a bit. I've been getting awfully banged up recently, "They said they wanted me ready as quickly as possible, and I wasn't supposed to end up doing any actual fighting."

"Rear-end bureaucrats," Carth curses quietly, "Welcome to the front lines, Taryn. The first rule of war is that nothing happens the way it's supposed to."

He pauses and looks at me musingly, "That actually wasn't bad; you fight with your whole body instead of just the sword. You just need practice thinking with the blade. I want you to start going through a few exercises."

Carth sets me to repeating some basic forms, most of which I remember from my instruction. Then he has me begin varying them quickly on command. It's difficult work and requires all of my concentration, and I still feel little confidence with them. It's a bizarre twist of fate that resurrected the sword in this day of blasters and spacecraft. Swords were mostly ceremonial or novelty weapons until a few years ago, when the introduction of personal shields rendered blasters far less effective; a shield will absorb a great deal of punishment from a blaster but does nothing against a sword. Perhaps we should buy a couple shields ourselves, although they are expensive and burn out after a few uses.

Eventually we begin sparring, sometimes with me defending, sometimes attacking, sometimes both. I am sweating and breathing deeply after only a few minutes of the work, and my soreness doesn't go away, but I persevere and embrace the pain to push further forward. Carth's weapon occasionally breaks through my defense and the dull pain of the practice sword hitting flesh adds to my body's protests. Each aching breath and cramping muscle is a reminder of the consequences of failure, a motivation to try harder, to focus. Twice I am rewarded by actually breaking through Carth's defense and striking him in turn. No doubt he's holding back, but success is still a satisfying feeling.

Only after several days of rigorous sparring – a couple hours by the clock, but my lungs and muscles tell a different story – does Carth finally allow us to stop. We pick the room's two chairs back up and collapse panting. Carth catches his breath first and stands up to get some water for us both.

"Do you feel better now?" Carth asks.

"I swear I know less now than when we started," I shiver. Now that the heat of the exercise is fading, my sweat-soaked clothing is downright cold.

"That's usually the way it goes when you start learning something. You have potential: you're fast, you think well on your feet, and you learn quickly. With practice, you could be a first-rate sword fighter," Carth takes his seat again.

The compliments only go so far to lightening my depression. Hard work took the bite out of it, but this old enemy will not be dislodged so easily. Assuming I'm not too stiff to move this evening, I might be able to beat Gerlon with Carth's training, but beating a cripple is hardly an inspiring accomplishment. We both sit silently for a few minutes, engrossed in our own thoughts.

"So how did you end up in the Navy?" Carth asks suddenly.

"To be honest, I'm not really sure myself," I answer after a moment. The question catches me a little off guard, but it's natural enough to ask, "I was born on a small farming world on the other side of the galaxy. I always wanted to leave, to see the galaxy and be part of something big. My dad said I should apply to the Academy, but for some reason it didn't appeal to me. I can't say why. I joined a passing trade ship when I was nineteen and worked on a number of different ships for the next several years."

"And that's how you became a smuggler," Carth says, his voice a mixture of disapproval and resignation.

"I suppose. Sometimes the captains did legitimate trade, and other times they didn't. I learned a lot of skills and alien languages, though, and eventually saved up enough money to buy my own ship in government auction. This was only…three and a half years ago now. They were getting rid of a lot of ships at very good prices after the war."

"So why did you give it up?"

"Well, it wasn't exactly my choice. There was an…accident and I lost the ship."

"Oh? You finally got caught?"

"No, not caught exactly," I struggle to get the words out. Out of all my failures, this one burns the deepest. That ship had become like a part of me, and losing it was like losing a family member or a body part. I still haven't really gotten over it, "I took some hits from a gunship before jumping to hyperspace. I thought I could make it to the planet surface at the other end to make repairs, but the secondary heat sink blew halfway through atmo entry and I had to abandon ship."

"Ah," that simple sound carries with it the full sympathy of a man who knows the pain of seeing his ship go up in flames, and the miserable sense that it could have been prevented somehow.

"Anyway," I hurry past the unpleasant topic, "I was on Corellia trying to figure out what to do next when a recruiter caught up with me and said my skills as a smuggler and a linguist would be invaluable to the Republic. I don't really know why I accepted. I think part of me wanted to be part of something bigger, more important."

I give a slightly bitter laugh at that, "I guess I got my wish. How about you, Carth?"

"Me? Well, I've been a soldier and star-pilot for the Republic for years. I guess I joined for idealistic reasons; to protect my home and defend peace and justice. I've seen more than my share of wars over the last twenty years. Most of them can scarcely be called wars anymore. The Mandalorians changed everything."

I remember that time, even though I was on the other side of the galaxy. Seven years ago the war-like Mandalorian clans launched a brutal attack on the Republic, and for months the whole galaxy was filled with horror as reports of defeats, retreats, and massacres dominated the news. There hadn't been a galaxy-spanning war in decades, and from what I read it may have been the largest scale war in history up to that time.

What surprised the galaxy was that the Jedi Order refused to help. For a while it seemed that the millennia-old Republic would be destroyed while her sworn protectors did nothing, until the Jedi Knights Revan and Malak led a faction of Jedi to fight the Mandalorians against the orders of the Jedi Council. With their help the tide began to turn, though blood continued to flow in increasing amounts. To my shame, I stayed out of the war as much as I could, though some of the ships I worked did make supply runs for the military. Perhaps the shame of that cowardice was part of the reason I eventually did enlist.

Carth frowns as he continues, "Even with all that, I've never experienced anything like the slaughter these sith animals can unleash. Not even the Mandalorians were that senseless. It's hard to believe that these are the same Jedi and soldiers I once fought with."

If the Jedi Order's refusal to help against the Mandalorians had been a surprise, it was nothing the shock when the heroes of the Mandalorian War suddenly appeared as enemies and conquerors. While the Republic tried to rebuild itself from the ruins after the victory at Malachor V, the Jedi Revan and Malak had taken a fleet to pursue the remnants of the Mandalorians. When they returned scarcely a year later calling themselves Sith Lords and leading a massive fleet in a surprise attack on the Republic, most didn't believe they could be the same people, myself included.

Emotion plays across Carth's face, and his voice comes out angry, "My home world was one of the first planets to fall to Malak's fleet. The sith bombed it into rubble, and there wasn't a damn thing our Republic forces could do to stop them!"

I'm staggered to see the solid war-hero breaking down like this. Carth is the consummate soldier in my mind, and to see this kind of anger inside him shows me a glimpse of a human side to him. The thought is frightening. Carth has been a rock of confidence so far, but if he is fallible…

"I'm sorry, Commander, I didn't mean to pry."

"There's nothing to pry into. I'm just a soldier. I follow my orders and do my duty. It doesn't seem right that doing that means I failed them! I didn't! But I joined to protect my home and now my home is in ashes. I guess being a soldier is all I have left," he gives a heavy sigh, then seems to come to himself, "Well this is enough sitting about. We have a mission to accomplish, so let's get moving."

It's not as easy as that, of course. We both have to clean up and change clothes. Fortunately Carth had the foresight to get some fresh changes of clothing last night as well as food, two new datapads, and various other items. It's well past noon local time, so we quickly consume some rations before heading out. As we belt on our weapons and head out, I suddenly remember my promise to bring food for our neighboring fugitive, Dia. We make a quick stop by her apartment to offer some of our provisions. She clearly didn't expect us to return, and offers genuine gratitude while still eyeing us sideways as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. We make our farewells as quickly as we can while still being polite and head out into the city.

The city at midday is little different from yesterday at dusk. The sky is rather more blue, and the temperature a little warmer, but there is still that orange and pink tint on the horizon and the people going about their lives with small interruption. Our crashed escape pod has been taken away, leaving only a scorch mark and bowed platform as testimony to our arrival. Sith patrols are in evidence, but they do not impede anyone that I can see.

Once we board the repulsor-train I pull out a datapad and log on to the holonet to find the medical clinic of one Doctor Forn. It's located just where my contact said it was; in a poorer section of the capital sector just south of the downtown area. Walking is probably the easiest way to get there, since the district trams all take roundabout routes. I hope that Dr. Zelka Forn will be both willing and able to help us, but we will have to be cautious all the same. When I quietly relay all this to Carth, he simply nods in agreement. Once we disembark at the downtown district station, Carth stops me from heading up to the street level.

"The elevators to the lower city are in the major train stations," he says, "Let's take a look for ourselves and see what the security is like."

The elevator is not difficult to find, with several passages leading to it, including low-profile rail systems for moving freight to and from the elevator. While it is called an elevator, it is actually more like a vertical gondola, with a long chain of large cars cycling up one shaft and down a second, stopping at only a few locations along the way. Although it is a system clearly designed to handle a large amount of traffic, it is just as clearly underutilized now. A squad of sith soldiers in their silver full-body armor stands guard armed with blaster rifles and vibroswords.

We stop discretely in front of a monitor showing the news – most of which looks like sith propaganda – and pretend to watch it while keeping an eye on the people using the elevator. Over the next twenty minutes, a number of people try to use the elevator, but most are rebuffed. The officer in charge tersely informs the citizens who approach that the elevator is off limits, and refuses to argue, even when one of the petitioners becomes verbally abusive. The officer simply gestures to one of his men, who steps forward with his blaster raised, and the citizen suddenly decides he has urgent business elsewhere. Groups of sith soldiers, sometimes in groups of two or four and sometimes a strong patrol numbering several dozen, pass through the elevator with no more than a nod to the guards. Aside from them, only one woman with a small escort of uniformed guards is allowed to pass, after the officer thoroughly examines her papers. In all, it appears that Rhys was correct and the sith are ruthlessly restricting access to the lower city. If Rhys doesn't provide us with a pass, we may have to look for alternative ways to get down there.

"There must be some other way to get to the lower city," I say to Carth as we begin walking the streets toward the medical clinic. I peer over the edge of the suspended street trying to see the bottom, but the bases of the towering skyscrapers are shrouded in their own shadows, "Couldn't we just get an airship and fly down?"

"Not likely," Carth answers, pointing to a pair of Tarisian Police skiffs drifting between the buildings a hundred meters below, "It looks like the sith have droids and patrol ships to keep people from doing just that. You might make it through without being shot if you have a fast ship and a good pilot, but the sith would be on your tail with a vengeance. There must be stairs, or maintenance shafts or something we could use. They can't be watching every nook and cranny of this place."

"That would probably be fruitless without a guide. If this place is anything like Coruscant or Nar Shaddaa, maintenance routes are an unplanned maze of tunnels only designed to move short distances. We could end up lost for weeks trying to find a way down, or get trapped somewhere until we starve to death," I reply. It's not a bad idea, though, "Maybe I could try to connect with the local criminal elements; they would know about any hidden routes. I really don't want to deal with the Exchange, though. There's bad blood between us."

By the time we walk the four klicks to our destination, I'm regretting the decision to avoid the tram, no matter how much longer it would have taken. Every muscle in my body is cursing me when I move, and little wonder between a battle, a near-fatal crash in an escape pod, a fight with sith soldiers, two duels, a murder attempt, and this morning's training. I trail behind Carth and he has to stop and wait for me to catch up several times, much to my embarrassment. It's a blessed relief to finally reach our destination. The medical clinic is in a smaller building, only a couple floors taller than the street. Not the most well-maintained place, but it strikes me as a reputable if economical facility.

"So what's our approach?" I ask Carth.

He considers for a moment, then grins slightly, "I think that we're seeking medical aid. Think you can play a crash victim so we can speak with the good doctor?"

"Well, it might take quite a bit of acting," I reply, wincing with each step as we walk inside, "but I think I can manage it somehow."

"Welcome to the medical clinic of Doctor Forn. Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist greets us in bored monotones. A dark skinned young man with short-cropped black hair, he looks like he would rather be somewhere else. He doesn't make for a very good first impression.

"I'm afraid we don't have an appointment," Carth replies, "but my friend here was in a…speeder accident and he needs to be checked up. Can we please see Doctor Forn? I hear he's the best."

The receptionist gives a put-upon sigh, "Are your friend's injuries life-threatening?"

"They can be if you want them to," I speak up, somewhat amused despite the pain by his uncaring attitude. He must be trying to act that rude. Hopefully Zelka Forn is a bit more courteous.

"Then you'll have to wait until he's available," he turns back to whatever he was working on in the hope that we will go away.

"And how long will that be?" Carth queries.

The receptionist shrugs, "How should I know? An hour or two, maybe? Do I look like his personal assistant?"

I nearly laugh out loud at that. This guy must be a charity case. Carth gives him our cover names, taking care to mention that we have cash, and we sit down in a corner where we can keep an eye on the exit and other occupants of the lobby. After a little while, I grow bored and pull out the datapad again to peruse news articles. Carth seems better able to put up with simple waiting and keeps a close eye on our surroundings.

After a good hour, with the other patients gone, the receptionist shows us to one of the small examination rooms off the facility's single hallway. As is the custom in all hospitals, this is followed by another wait before a steel-colored droid enters and does its best impression of a nurse while it runs through the basic battery of tests. Much as I like droids, they never manage to replace a person's touch in these situations. This is followed by a wait of another ten minute wait before we finally get a chance to see the doctor.

Zelka Forn opens the door and walks in looking at his datapad. A professional middle-aged man with dark skin and thin mustache, his face is friendly if weary, "So you are…Carn and Lars? I am Zelka Forn, and welcome to my little facility. It says here you were in a speeder accident?"

"Lars was," says Carth, gesturing toward me, "I'm fine."

"Well let me see how bad it is," Zelka has me take off my shirt and begins checking me over, "You two are offworlders, aren't you? Stranded by the quarantine, I suppose?"

"We can pay," Carth puts in hurriedly, but the doctor waves him off.

"Oh, have no fear. I don't refuse service to anyone. My rates are low and my services are as good as can be expected with the quarantine."

"Is the receptionist a relative of yours?" I ask curiously, hoping I'm not being too blunt. They bear some resemblance to each other.

"My nephew," Zelka explains with a sigh, "He needed work, and how could I refuse? You must forgive his manners; he grew up in the lower city."

"Understandable," Carth says, then adds casually after a pause, "So how has the sith occupation affected you, aside from the quarantine?"

Zelka snorts, "I don't know much about the sith, but I know enough to be scared of them. Anyone who pays attention knows about their brutality, what they do to planets they conquer. So far all they've done is ask me some general questions, but I'm afraid they might one day decide to shut me down simply out of evil spite. I guess there's not much I can do about the sith, except hope that the Republic finds a way to stop their conquest of the entire galaxy."

I'm glad to hear that he opposes the sith, but the next words out of his mouth drop the ground right out from under us.

"You're Republic soldiers, aren't you?" he says shrewdly, giving us careful looks.

"Of course not!" Carth denies, right on top of my casually amused reply, "Whatever gave you that idea?" Zelka looks between us, seeming even more certain now. Blast it all, we need to get on the same page. A mixed reply like that is just giving us away.

"A number of details," Zelka replies to my question slowly, "For one, you have recent blaster and vibroblade injuries, Lars. I suspect your 'speeder accident' was an escape pod, yes?"

Carth and I exchange worried glances and he puts his hands on his blasters. Perhaps the doctor is a friend, but if there's a chance he might give us away… I start running through a map of the city in my head, plotting how we can leave without being followed. He doesn't know where we stay or who we are, so if we can just lose any pursuit in the crowded city, we'll be fine. I just hope my legs will cooperate.

"You don't trust me," Zelka says flatly, stepping back and putting down his equipment.

"Is there a reason we should?" Carth answers quietly.

Zelka hesitates, then sighs and says, "Follow me. I need to show you something."

We exchange glances again, then both get up and follow the doctor cautiously down the hall. He stops at a door labeled 'Closed for maintenance' and 'Radiation Danger' and punches in a code to unlock it. Carth and I watch him warily. He fumbles in the dark room for a few minutes, then switches on a light. A dozen kolto tanks line the walls; with half-naked bodies suspended in the bubbling, clear liquid. They appear severely injured and none of them are conscious, but it's not clear why Zelka is hiding them like this. I look closer at their faces and gasp.

"These are…they're from the _Endar Spire_," Carth breathes.

"Since the invasion, people have been secretly bringing in these Republic soldiers who crash landed on the planet," Zelka explains, "I had to take them in. What choice did I have? Their injuries are terrible, and most won't survive, but at least I can make their last days more comfortable. At least here they are hidden away from the sith."

Carth shakes his head sadly, but looks relieved as well, "Well, for that you have my thanks. It's good to know that at least some of these men ended up in compassionate hands."

I walk slowly in front of each tank, looking each of them in the face. I didn't know any of them, though I recognize several, but it my heart goes out to each of these poor souls. A peculiar wound on a couple of them catches my attention.

"Are those…teeth marks?" I burst out.

Zelka grimaces, "Most were brought up from the Undercity. I'm afraid they were attacked by rakghouls. There is nothing I can do for that."

"What do you mean?" Carth demands.

"The rakghoul disease is a terrible virus. It is spread by the rakghouls or by prolonged exposure in the Undercity. Symptoms show within three days and within three weeks, the victim's mind is burned completely away and they have mutated into a mindless beast that feeds on flesh. I have sedated these two heavily to slow the onset of the change, but when the time comes I will have no choice but to…to euthanize them."

"There's no cure?" I ask forlornly. I shiver to think that we may have to go hunting around the Undercity with these rakghoul things everywhere. The thought of being infected and slowly losing your mind is even worse than the thought of dying.

"None that I have," Zelka says, slightly angry now, "Republic scientists were developing a vaccine that could cure the disease if taken within a few days of exposure. They were very, very close to perfecting it when the sith arrived. Now they refuse to let me access the labs, and I suspect they are keeping the secret for their own soldiers. We could eliminate the plague completely with that vaccine, but it will be a long time before the sith decide to care about the people they conquer."

Zelka closes the door and we return to the small examination room silently. Carth speaks up as the doctor returns to his check.

"So now that you know who we are, doctor, is there any way you can help us? We're on a vital mission for the Republic, and we need to find other survivors from the battle. Do you know a way to get to the Undercity, or the lower city?"

Zelka is shaking his head, "I don't know of any way past the sith checkpoints. The people who brought me those soldiers didn't tell me how they got here, and I didn't ask. It's safest that way. I would help you if I could, but all I can do is offer you my medical services. As for you Lars, you are in remarkably good shape all things considered."

"Tell that to my nervous system," I grumble good-naturedly.

"The damage is superficial; all you really need is a couple weeks of rest."

I hesitate. A tiny voice starts whispering that this could be a way out of this whole mess; if I need to rest I can't be running around the Undercity or get shot at by the sith. The voice is quickly swallowed up by determination to accomplish the task and fulfill my promise.

"That's not an option, doctor," I say firmly, "Is there anything you can do to get me back on my feet quickly? Something other than pain meds?"

I don't like using drugs frequently; it creates a dangerous dependency and they become less effective for when I really need them.

"I had a feeling you would say that," he sighs resignedly, "You could spend an hour or two in a kolto tank. Normally I reserve my supply of kolto for life-threatening wounds, but for you I will make an exception."

And so I end up floating half-naked in a claustrophobic kolto tank for the next hour. It's an awkward feeling to be breathing through a mask and suspended in bubbling fluid while looking at a perfectly ordinary room. The boredom threatens insanity, but to my surprise I manage to fall asleep and wake up as Zelka is draining the tank. I'm still trying to get the fluid out of my ears as Carth and I walk the streets to the cantina, but the soreness and aching is all but gone. There's almost a spring in my step, as if I had a week's worth of rest compressed in that one hour.

We reach the cantina as the sun is setting in its customary display of brilliant colors, just in time for our meeting with Rhys. Lamentably, this also means the duel rematch is now only a few hours away as well. We pick our way through the crowd, careful to avoid the cluster of armored sith soldiers relaxing outside the establishment. Inside, the Tarisian night life is building up enthusiastically, everyone eager to forget the troubles of the occupation. I begin to move toward the taproom where we met Rhys yesterday, when Carth grabs me by the arm and hastily pulls me behind a column.

"I think we have a problem," Carth says quietly in response to my questioning look. He gestures surreptitiously in the direction of the bar. I glance furtively in that direction, but all I see is Rhys sitting with a drink and looking rather nervous. Warily, I look further, and notice a pair of gray-clothed men at the bar pretending to nurse their drinks while looking sharp-eyed at everyone who passes. Near the entrance to the taproom, a man and a woman in similar gray clothing lean casually against a wall while their hands stray toward the blasters on their belts. Realization strikes like a lightning bolt. We have been betrayed.


	4. Chapter 4 : Know Your Enemy

* * *

High Admiralty, Coruscant

Admiral Dodanna, Talon Expeditionary Force Headquarters,

Your request for authorization and reinforcements to counterattack Taris is denied. Such an attack would result in catastrophic losses whatever the outcome of the battle, and it is inadvisable to undertake such an operation when the chance of successfully retrieving Bastila is so slim. Although the Jedi Council agrees with your assertion that Bastila's Battle Meditation is critical to our success, they were not willing to countenance the high casualties your plan entailed. We must learn to make do without Jedi powers.

Malak's preoccupation with Taris affords a different opportunity that cannot be missed. Sith lines have been weakened in critical areas and their offensive push has stalled. Your fleet will be reassigned to take advantage of this weakness. You are hereby ordered to disperse your fleet as follows: the 348th Fleet Group will report to Iridonia, the 173rd Fleet Group to… …and two Fleets of the 503rd Fleet Group to Onselar.

It is no doubt apparent to you from these orders that the Talon Expeditionary Force is being disbanded. Your previous orders are null and void, as the entire operation was contingent on the support of the Jedi and Bastila's Battle Meditation. Instead you will proceed with the remainder of your fleet to the Galen front and take command of the 15th Sector Fleet, united the ships remaining in your command.

Naval Intelligence reports that the sith fleet in the region is severely reduced. You will counterattack at Galen as soon as practicable. Once captured, you are to fortify the system and take whatever measures you deem prudent to disrupt enemy activity in the area. You will be under the overall command of Admiral Kisari of the South Theatre. Cooperate with Admirals Marten and Soliday under the direction of Admiral Kisari to break up enemy concentrations along the border and form a solid defensive line within the theatre. Proceed with all dispatch and be prepared for further orders.

High Admiral Eisner, Board of Admiralty

* * *

I quickly duck back behind the column, hoping our furtive movements aren't drawing attention. Why did Rhys betray us? I was certain he hated the sith; I'm still certain of it. Perhaps he's just one of those who feathers his own nest whatever the situation. It doesn't really matter to us though; what matters is that now we have to figure out how to get out of here without being caught. It's a good thing Carth spotted the trap before Rhys saw us, or we would be in deep space without a navicomputer.

People are staring at us, blast it. I look questioningly at Carth and nod back toward the exit. His grim expression signals agreement and we hurry out as quickly as possible without actually appearing to flee. In my mind's eye the sith agents stalk us through the noisy crowd, but I refuse to look over my shoulder. My heart leaps into my throat when we step outside to see the squad of armored sith still lingering nearby. They make no move toward us, but it's all I can do to keep panic from showing on my face. We walk down the wide street for a short while, losing ourselves in the crowds, then Carth pulls me into a small shop.

"I don't think we were followed," Carth says quietly, as we peer out the store's window, "Your friend must not have seen us."

"Thank the Force," I breathe.

A scratchy old voice behind us interrupts genially, "How can I help you today, good sirs? Would you like some new boots? You'll not find better prices anywhere."

The shop's owner, a balding, wiry little man, hobbles out from behind his counter and gestures at the merchandise cluttering his store.

"Ah…no thank you," Carth replies, "We're just looking around."

Unperturbed, the old man points to a rack of multi-colored shirts, "You should take a look at these, good sirs, they're just the fashion. Why, I've even had nobles buy some of these!"

I give the man a noncommittal smile and quickly scan the room for alternate exits – there are two to my relief – before muttering to the Commander, "Damn it. I'm sorry, Carth. This is all my fault."

"Why, this would be perfect for you sir! Would you like to try it on?" The shopkeeper rambles on, offering me a garment in violent hues of green and violet that I wouldn't wear without a blaster to my head, if then. I ignore him as politely as possible.

"Sometimes you have to take risks," Carth says reassuringly, "but remember to be careful who you trust next time. We'll just have to start over again, and stay away from that cantina from now on. Perhaps now we look into the…alternate routes we discussed earlier."

The rebuke bites deeply, no matter how kindly it was presented. All our efforts so far are useless; nothing but valuable time wasted. We should be safe if we stay away from the cantina, but the sith will no doubt put our descriptions on their wanted lists. True, we will be only two more faces on a list of thousands, but now they're looking for us and the slim layer of added risk could be the layer that gets us captured. Worse, I've jeopardized the success of the entire mission and might have put Bastila into sith hands. I try to find a reply, but my throat tightens so I can scarcely breathe and find myself actually choking back tears.

"Or how about you, sir?" The old man turns to Carth, oblivious to our conversation, "There must be something here that suits you. Ah, I have just the thing!"

He moves over to another rack and pulls off a bulky, dull-orange flight jacket. It's almost too heavy for him to lift, but he holds it out toward Carth, "Yes, it's perfect! It will enhance your strong, manly presence, and the color is just right for you. It is sturdy and warm, ideal for whatever dangers you find yourself in!"

The shopkeeper's oblivious antics and eager salesmanship are a surreal contrast to the seriousness of our situation. I have to fight back an irrational surge of anger toward the man – doesn't he know what's going on? How can he be so…so frivolous when lives and possibly the future of the entire galaxy are at stake? No, the old man has nothing to do with this. The fault is mine, and so is the responsibility for the consequences.

"It's time to get going," Carth says hurriedly, looking askance at the proffered coat, "Let's move out."

"Wait…wait, let me think."

There must be some way to fix this mess. The sith will keep looking for us, even if only as a trivial priority, until we're captured…or until they decide their information was false. I wonder if there's some way to convince them of the latter. What is the sith officer out there thinking right now?

"Think? Think good sir?" the shopkeeper crows, "How could you say no to an offer such as this? The opportunity of a lifetime, for only five credits!"

"Can we step outside for a minute?" I ask Carth, not wanting to continue this discussion in front of a stranger.

"You can't leave yet, good sirs! I just know I have something for you! Please, please, have a look over here," he shambles over to another display and starts going through it, a hint of desperation in his voice. In a sudden flash I become aware of the shopkeeper for the first time and see this poor old man's life through his eyes. Here is an aging man without support, trying to make a living with a second-rate clothing store in a failing economy. It is so easy to forget the troubles of others when I'm wrapped up in my own worries. I pull six credits out of my purse and place them in the man's hand.

"We'll take the jacket," I tell him, "Fortune smile on you."

I hurry out of the shop behind Carth, fleeing the embarrassment of the shopkeeper's profuse gratitude. Standing in the alcove outside the shop, Carth awkwardly tries to figure out what to do with the bulky orange jacket. Finally he shoves it under his arm in a bundle and turns to me with that confident officer's face he does so well.

"We'll go back to the doctor and get in touch with his lower city contacts. It may take a little time, but he has as much to lose as we do if the sith get involved. Forn is our safest contact so far," he says.

I feel a little more confident myself after helping out that shopkeeper. Somehow it helped to think beyond myself, but I still swallow nervously at the thought of what I'm about to do, "Can I try something first? I think I have an idea to make the sith forget about us."

Carth raises an eyebrow, "Oh? What is it?"

I check my jacket for the three grenades I tucked away, "Do you know how to change the delay time on a grenade?"

"I do have one grenade with a variable fuse," he says slowly, "What are you thinking? Attacking them won't…"

I interrupt him quickly, "Can I use it, sir? It should only take a few minutes, a half hour at most. I think it would be best if you waited here. Worst case scenario, they only catch one of us."

"Taryn," Carth says urgently, "You don't have to do anything crazy. This is just a minor setback, don't throw everything away."

"I don't intend to," I tell him wryly. He's wrong; I do need to do this. Not for the mission but for myself. If I succeed, then I prove that I am worth something to Carth and the Republic, and if I fail then I was dead weight and he'll be better off without me. I pitch my voice in a confident imperative couched with respect, "The grenade, please."

To my relief he accedes with a sigh and hands me a small cylindrical grenade, "Sure, why not? It's only the galaxy at stake, after all."

"Thank you, Carth. I'll be back," I gingerly accept the weapon, then place it in a small pouch with two of my own and slip the bundle under my jacket. Before Carth begins asking questions, I glide off into the crowd.

Crowds are amazing things for hiding. Once you get over the anxious feeling that you are walking around with a thousand eyes on you, you realize that in the sea of faces it's impossible to really notice any one person. Even well-known faces are difficult to pick out amongst so many. Take care not to stand out in dress or action, and a crowd lets you move around all but invisibly. Hiding in plain sight this way, I meander the broad street full of lights and sounds until I find what I expected: half a dozen air speeders parked in the very alley where we were ambushed last night. A pair of bored sith soldiers in armor sit a lazy watch over the vehicles.

I stop and sit to plan my next move at a fountain in the middle of the street next to a kissing couple. The sith could scarcely have given me a better opportunity if they had tried, but I run through a dozen contingency plans just in case. A spike of fear at what I'm about to do shoots up, but it is flattened by determination and a rush of adrenaline. This is the kind of thing I'm used to doing, not straight-up fights like on the _Endar Spire_. My biggest concern is that there will be collateral damage, but I believe the blast will be contained and in any case there is no help for it.

My plans made, I join a large cluster of people heading past the parked air speeders. When we come abreast of the alley, I stop and crouch down by the large garbage bin as if looking for something I dropped. I pull the grenade bundle out from my jacket, trigger the variable grenade for one minute, then slide the whole bundle under the bin to stop abutting the nearest air speeder. Instinct recommends running as fast as I can with the knowledge that there is a live grenade not three meters away. Instead I casually stand up and throw away a piece of garbage, as if that is what I was looking for the whole time, before rejoining the passing throng.

One minute seems an interminably long time when your adrenaline is up. I'm half convinced that something went wrong with the fuse when a loud boom cracks through the hubbub of the street. A few piercing shrieks punctuate the collective gasp as everyone nearby stops and looks around to see what happened. Following the crowd, I turn around to see my handiwork.

A few small shards of metal are scattered in the street by the alley and a thin plume of acrid black smoke is beginning to waft from between the buildings. To my infinite relief, there are no bodies or screams of pain from wounded. The two guards rush out of the alley and stare around at the mass of people, hopelessly trying to identify their attacker. For a terrifying moment, one of them seems to stare suspiciously at me, but then he turns on his heel and begins barking into his comlink. The second guard keeps the curious crowd in a wide semicircle around the alley with a few shouts and a leveled blaster rifle.

A minute later, the armored squad of sith that was watching the cantina entrance pushes through the throng, followed shortly by two of the plainclothes sith from inside. One of the plainclothes must be the officer, because he furiously questions the two guards while gesticulating emphatically. I feel a thread of, well not fear, but anxious anticipation rising. Sabotaging the sith was all well and fun, but that alone was hardly worth the time or risk. Now, I wait and see what the sith officer decides.

For a long moment the officer frowns at the wrecked air speeder, then he speaks sharply into his comlink. A minute later, the other two plainclothes sith from the cantina push through the crowd dragging a panic-stricken Rhys between them. To my infinite relief, the sith reacted just as I anticipated. I can't keep a wide grin of satisfaction off my face. Rhys pleads desperately with the officer, almost in tears, but the sith only cuffs him sharply and has him taken to one of the undamaged air speeders.

"No more than the traitor deserves," growls a voice into my ear, and I nearly bolt like a frightened gizka before I recognize it as Carth's.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. I heard the commotion and decided to see if you needed help."

That's exactly what I _didn't_ want him to do. If I was in trouble all he could have done was get caught as well, and then the slim odds of Bastila escaping would have been that much thinner. Carth and his bloody hero impulse. Of course, I can hardly say all that to my superior officer.

"I had things under control," I say instead. The sith soldiers are breaking up the crowd now, with the butts of their weapons in a few cases. Carth and I slip away with everyone else.

"So I see," he replies, sounding impressed, "How did you know what they would do?"

"What would you do if you were a suspicious officer whose superiors were hard on failure, and your men were attacked while you were waiting with an informant for alleged criminals who never showed?"

He thinks a moment, "I would probably assume the informant had set me up and then take him in to show my superiors a captured insurgent. I expect I wouldn't believe a word he said after that. Very good work."

"They'll probably throw away any descriptions they got as well," I add, "After all, the insurgent would hardly have given away his real cohorts."

"So it looks like we're in the clear, at least for the moment," Carth looks around, "Well I'm in the mood for a stiff drink after all that excitement. And your duel is coming up an hour or two. Let's head back to the cantina for a bite to eat before you get ready for the fight."

Blast, I'd completely forgotten about the rematch with Gerlon, "On second thought, maybe we should go somewhere else, just in case?"

"Oh no, you don't. You're not getting out of it that easily, not after your work with the shinies. Let's go."

There's no sign of the commotion that Rhys' arrest must have occasioned inside, though I expect half the conversations still center on it. The band is trying something cheerful and relaxing now, to soothe anxious customers. We take a small table and order a quick dinner. I'm famished at the moment, but eat light because of the upcoming fight. As incentive, I promise myself a proper meal once the fight is over. Considering the bill, I may need to win just cover the cost of the food.

When I stand to go, Carth makes to join me, but I insist he stay and enjoy his meal. He may be forcing me into this fight, but it would just be too much if he prodded me along like a stubborn child the whole way. At last he settles back to his meal, albeit after giving a few words of advice and encouragement.

"Be ready for anything, but play to your strengths," he says, again loaning me his modified blaster.

Play to your strengths. Yes, that's what I should have done last time. A straight-up sword fight against a tough veteran was foolish with my level of skill, even if it did catch him off guard. I need to attack obliquely and out-think Gerlon, like I did with the sith ambush. The first thing is to simply talk to him. 'Know your enemy' is the foremost rule of warfare.

Seeing Gerlon's face sets my heart fluttering with the shame of yesterday's defeat, but I force myself to lock eyes and present my hand in friendship, "Well fought last night, Gerlon."

He disdains to accept my proffered hand and answers me mockingly, "Oh, you're that 'Mysterious Stranger', aren't you? You made a good show against Duncan, but Deadeye's a joke."

"I respect your skills and I hope you can do the same, whatever the outcome of this match," I persistently keep my hand outstretched. He looks at me disdainfully, then reluctantly shakes my hand.

"You almost had a chance when we were going at it with blasters," he concedes grudgingly, "but now you're up against real duelists. Not just anyone can make it in the big leagues."

With a final nod to Gerlon, I go to prepare for the duel. He's overconfident, which is good, and he thinks he has a decided edge in hand to hand fighting. I can use both of those to my advantage. I don my black garments as if putting on armor, hiding my doubts and insecurities behind the persona of the Mysterious Stranger. By the time I slide the dark shades over my eyes, my face is a mask of imperturbable confidence. Inside, fear slowly gives way to determination and my mind evaluates a hundred possible plans. I grasp the handle of Carth's blaster as if to draw his skill from it. After some consideration, I unhook my vibroblade from my belt and tie it to my back with some leather straps. Settling my cloak over the blade, I stride into the dueling ring.

A kind of fog settles over my mind as I calmly survey the arena; not an opaque mist but a clear one in which all distractions fade away leaving a razor-sharp focus on the fight ahead. The noise of the crowd and the droning of the announcer are muted to a dull buzz, and I note with grim detachment the monitors listing odds two to one against me.

Gerlon's entrance stands out clear as crystal, and I note the arrogance with which he raises his right hand, displaying his missing finger as if to boast that even with his missing fingers he is more than a match for me. I spot the light in his eyes when he sees me apparently armed only with a blaster, and note that although he places his hand on his own blaster, he has not even bothered to un-strap it from its holster. Clearly he means to use his own superiority with the blade, counting on the small size of the arena to keep me from using a blaster with any effectiveness. Narrowing my plans, I give Gerlon a short bow – it always pays to respect your adversaries – and cast off my cloak with a flourish to settle on the ground between us as I did last time.

The buzzer cuts sharply across the buzz of the crowd, and our weapons leap to our hands. Gerlon abandons his ruse with the blaster and pulls out his long sword as he sprints across the twenty meters between us. Carth's blaster blazes in my hands, but the red flashes of fire miss or glance off his armor. Halfway across, Gerlon suddenly realizes that the cloak is a tripping hazard in his path. He doesn't slow his step, but I can see him hesitate for a fraction of a second before he decides to leap over it with blade poised for a heavy stroke.

The millisecond that Gerlon commits to his jump, I drop my blaster and hurl myself to the side. I snatch my vibroblade from over my shoulder and, while he is still in midair, slash into the backs of his thighs in a near-perfect execution of the Korrum form Carth taught me this morning. Gerlon screams and his legs collapse under him as they hit the ground, sending him sprawling on his face. His sword slips from his grasp and I hurry over to kick it away. He lays stunned, and for a moment I'm uncertain what to do next. This is not a real fight and I can hardly strike down a helpless opponent, but Gerlon is struggling to push himself upright. Staying out of arm's reach, I rest my blade on the unarmored back of his neck. The edge glows blue as it meets the suppressor field, and he stops straining against the painful pressure. For long seconds we stay frozen in that tableau, then Gerlon reluctantly taps the ground to the yield the fight.

"It's over?!" cries the announcer, sounding surprised, "The fight is over! The Mysterious Stranger has won! An amazing rematch for the newcomer! Are Gerlon's injuries finally catching up with him, or is the Mysterious Stranger for real?"

I can't believe it was so easy. The fight lasted scarcely twenty seconds and I didn't even work up a sweat. Not until I help Gerlon back to his feet does the audience get over its collective shock to roar with cheers and groans in equal measure. Gerlon congratulates me stoically, then mutters something about how I never would have won before his injury. His ungracious behavior doesn't dull my satisfaction as I bow to the crowd and sweep from the arena.

In the glow of victory, I decide to return to the cantina without changing. Perhaps the Mysterious Stranger will be as successful at making contacts as he is at winning duels. Also, if I was famished before I'm ravenous now and I simply don't want to spare the time. I stop by the Hutt, Ajuur, to collect my winnings – a smooth two hundred – before ascending to the main level of the cantina. Eyes turn to watch me and a few shouted comments drift over the hubbub, but no one interrupts my progress. Carth is nowhere in evidence, so I take a recently vacated table for myself.

A short while later I'm savoring the aroma of a double helping of Corellian endwa. The cooks here have done a very passable job with it, and after weeks of the mess hall and days of packaged rations real food is more enjoyable than words can describe. I relish each bite of the leisurely meal while keeping an eye on my surroundings. While scraping my plate clean and considering a splurge on dessert, I notice a pair of women a dozen meters away casting me sidelong glances while whispering to each other. The two girls – surely grown women don't behave like this – burst into giggles when they see me watching them and whisper even more furiously. Just what I need.

Relief comes from an unexpected source. A stern-faced young woman walks up to the two girls and fixes them with an intimidating glare. They gape at her for a moment, then blush crimson and scamper off into the crowd. I turn away before the newcomer sees me looking at her, but continue to watch from the corner of my eye. Her clothing is casual and decent quality, but doesn't give any hint as to her identity. She appears to be in her mid-twenties, almost as tall as me, and with dark red hair caught up in a knot behind her head. She frowns at the retreating backs of the women she just chased off, but her face softens when she turns to stare at me. She's actually quite pretty without that stern expression, especially when she starts biting her lower lip nervously. Finally, she takes a deep breath and walks over.

"Do you mind if I join you, 'Stranger'?" she asks with a winning smile.

To keep with my persona and test her a little, I keep my face carefully blank and stare straight at her without saying a word. It's a curious phenomenon, but an expressionless and unwavering stare will eventually unnerve almost anyone. I once made a prisoner break down and confess using no more than this. Red Hair shifts her feet and bites her lower lip again, but to her credit she stands her ground. At the least she's not one of those flighty girls, and how can I say no to a pretty woman wanting to sit with me?

I smile slightly and gesture at the table's second chair invitingly, "Not at all, have a seat. Can I order you something? I was about to have some chor-cake myself."

"That sounds good, actually," Red Hair says as she takes her seat. I signal to the waiter and give my order briefly.

"So I saw your match a little while ago," she begins warmly, "That was great! You took that guy apart like he was standing still."

I flush slightly, "You might not be so impressed if you had seen me last night."

"Oh, I saw it," Red Hair confides with a grin, "I'm on to you though. You beat him so easily today – I think you lost on purpose yesterday to make everyone underestimate you. Didn't fool me; I won fifteen credits betting on you."

Oh, if only that were true. If she wants to think that, though, I suppose there's no reason to correct her error. I doubt she would believe me if I tried.

"I do like seeing a good duel," she continues, "The circle here isn't as good as the one back on Resaca, but it's still fun to watch."

"Are you from Resaca?"

"Born and raised, but please don't hold it against me."

"I visited Resaca a couple times. Are you from the west or east continent?"

"I grew up on the east continent, but I went to school in Punjab for a few years."

"Punjab? That was my port of call. Did you ever go to…"

We fall into a conversation about her home world, which she seems to genuinely miss despite her claims that it was a boring backwater. Red Hair is as friendly as she is pretty, with hints of a roguish sense of humor that transforms our talk from civil conversation to a friendly chat. It's wonderfully relaxing to just have a casual conversation with someone for once. I can forget my troubles for a little while, though I have to keep reminding myself not to relax too far and start giving away anything dangerous.

We pause when the waiter arrives and puts a serving of sweet chor-cake in front of each of us. With careful restraint, I take a single bite before saying, "Forgive my rudeness, I haven't even asked your name yet."

"Oh, of course. My name is Sarna," she says, then adds proudly, "Junior Officer First Class with the Sith Occupation Force."

Only my assumed mask as an enigmatic duelist keeps me from suddenly goggling open-mouthed. My heart tries to leap out of my chest and my legs immediately vote for a sudden dash to the door. A sith officer?! Is she here to arrest me? No, surely she would have done so already if she was planning it. I can't believe I've been talking to one of the enemy!

"You don't look like one of the sith," I say conversationally and immediately regret it. Fool! What, did you think that sith all had horns coming out of their heads or wore signs saying 'Evil Bastard'? Did you think that they ate babies and murdered passersby in their spare time? In retrospect, it seems obvious that most of the sith soldiers are just ordinary people caught up in greater events, much like me. Still, it's hard to accept that this pleasant young woman is part of a regime that is responsible for so much death, suffering, and oppression.

"I'm off duty right now, so I'm not in uniform," she sounds disappointed that I'm not impressed by her rank, and perhaps regretful of having said too much, "How about you? What's your name? You're not a native Tarisian, are you?"

"My name is 'The Mysterious Stranger'," I say, then realize how pompous that sounded and add, "You can call me Lars, though."

I take another bite to buy some time to think. The sweet cake tastes like bitter ashes now. Part of me wants to just get away as quickly as possible. The countering whisper of hard reason says that contact with a sith officer is an invaluable opportunity that should be carefully exploited. It's a very quiet whisper, but it's always been irritatingly accurate. Sadly, I bid farewell to the warm conversation of moments ago and slip back into cold calculation.

"You're right, I'm from off-world," I continue, trying to gently move away from talking about myself, "I was passing through on business recently and got trapped by the invasion and quarantine."

Sarna's smile vanishes and she cringes slightly, realizing that I may not have been the best person to brag to about being a sith soldier, "Oh. I thought you were…"

"Hey, I don't blame you," I hasten to add in my most reassuring tone. In all honesty I really don't blame her for the decisions of her superiors, but the remark was actually designed to redirect our talk, "You're just doing your job, right?"

"That's true," Sarna says happily, looking relieved, "Most of the locals on Taris can't stand us sith, though. I thought that, well since you were from off world, you might be different."

"I bet the natives give you a hard time," I say understandingly, inviting her to vent her frustrations. It's a good exercise to both build trust and catch potentially useful information.

"You have no idea, Lars," she groans, "Everybody and their sister has a complaint about the quarantine or the checkpoints. As if I could do something about it! Then they start blaming everything that goes wrong on us. I've had dozens of people complain that we're not doing enough about thefts and crime. Did you know that the crime rate has actually dropped since we arrived? Just this afternoon…"

I listen and nod sympathetically as she vents days of pent-up irritation. She talks freely and seems to relax as she goes on, speaking about life as a sith soldier, her fellow officers, and whatever else comes to her mind. It's surprising how much being a sith soldier sounds like being a Republic soldier, but that makes it all the more jarring when she speaks casually about things like iron-tight curfews and summary executions. At last she seems to have gotten the worst of it out, and she finishes with a sigh, "Well, I'm sorry for rambling like this. I'm sure you have more important things to do than listen to me talk about my life."

"No, I understand. You have to get this stuff of your chest sometimes. It's tough enough being a soldier, even when you're not stationed on a hostile world."

"That's right! Sometimes you just have to blow off some steam. Thanks for listening; it's nice to meet someone who understands what I'm going through. I can't talk about this stuff with my soldiers, and it gets pretty lonely at times. I wish everyone was as understanding as you. Everyone on this backwater planet seems to be in a permanent bad mood. Don't they know we have to make the best of things?"

"You just have to keep up a positive attitude," I agree encouragingly, "Things never look so bad when you have a good attitude."

"Exactly! It's all about attitude. I didn't ask for this assignment, anymore than these Tarisians asked me to be here, but I try to make the best of it! That's why I come here to the cantina when I'm off duty," Sarna suddenly seems to remember something, checks her chrono, and gives a small groan, "I have to get going soon – I have a double shift coming up. Tell you what, some of us junior sith officers are having a party tomorrow night to keep our spirits up. Why don't you drop by the party? I'd really like to see you again."

A note of pleading enters her voice at the end that I find hard to refuse. I pause for a moment to consider, and am ashamed that my first thought is that drunk and weary sith officers provide promising – if dangerous – prospects for the mission. Despite qualms about mingling with my enemies, I assure Sarna that I will be there. Her answering smile is so warm that I feel a sudden stab of guilt at how I'm using her.

I watch Sarna hurry away, then turn glumly back to the remains of my food. Unfortunately I've lost my appetite, so I end up just pushing it around while musing on that unexpected encounter. With a sigh, I call over the waiter to clear the table and settle my bill. Carth appears just as the waiter is leaving.

"There you are!" he says, "I've been looking all over for you. So how does it feel to be tonight's dueling victor?"

"Uh…good, actually," I reply, startled out of my meditations. I had almost forgotten about that, but with the reminder I'm surprised to find that the depression that had gripped me since last night has disappeared. It seems success is a powerful antidote for failure. I suppose I have Carth to thank for that – maybe I can talk with him about Sarna. Fortunately, he quickly gives me an opportunity.

"So who was that woman you were talking to a minute ago?" he asks.

"Her name was Sarna. It turns out she's a…a shiny."

"A what?!" Carth chokes. His normally companionable demeanor vanishes as he fixes me with a hard stare, "And why, exactly, were you talking to one of…_them_?"

"I didn't even know who she was at first," I protest, taken aback. Carth's vehement suspicion seems beyond any normal precaution. I can't help think there must be something personal behind this somewhere, but now is not the time to ferret it out, "She was so…normal! Not at all what I expected. She would have fit right in with our crew. Is that what we're fighting so hard against?"

Carth lets out a sigh and relaxes again. He frowns in thought for a long while before responding, "Taryn, in most wars both armies are made up of ordinary people. You have to remember that they all chose their side; they knew what cause they were fighting for and what risks they were taking by becoming soldiers. You might be surprise by what terrible things otherwise decent people will do when they take up arms for an evil cause. And also remember that if we don't fight them, then billions of other ordinary people will suffer for it."

This is dangerous talk in a crowded cantina, but I can't seem to stop myself from asking in a low voice, "And what about us? Do we do horrible things as well? Are we any better than them?"

"Don't be ridiculous. What we're fighting for is exactly the opposite. I don't deny that our side does the wrong thing sometimes, but remember what we're fighting for: freedom, justice, peace. They fight for power and conquest. That's what sets us apart, and that's why we can't give up."

That triggers a memory, and I softly quote to myself,

"Good causes and desires

Do not prescribe my way

I brave the hail of fire

For just six creds a day,"

"Eh? What's that?" Carth looks at me curiously.

"Just something I read somewhere. I know you're right, Carth," I sigh. He is right, but so is that poet whose name I cannot remember. Sarna did make a choice, but I think that to her it was just a job, and she scarcely understood the real implications of the side she chose. I wonder if I will ever be able to see the sith as faceless, monstrous enemies again. A troubling thought for another time, "In any case, she invited me to a party tomorrow night, and I expect you can slip in as well. I know it's a risk, but the shinies are the only ones with unrestricted access to the lower city, and alcohol will give us opportunities."

"Maybe it will, at that. More than I discovered at any rate. Talking up the locals seems to be your specialty, not mine."

"Well, whoever's specialty it is, I think we're done here for tonight. Let me change clothes and we'll head back to the apartment for an early start tomorrow."

Carth gives me a funny look, and I realize that I was talking as if I was in charge again. I often forget the vast gap in rank between a Commander and a Specialist, Third Class, and this is Carth's mission anyway, not mine. Cursing myself, I hastily add, "If you agree."

"A good plan," Carth says smoothly, "I'll meet you outside."

Our return to the apartment is quick, quiet, and mercifully free of ambushes or surprises. These constant crises are straining my nerves. Weariness comes on me as we walk through the silent corridors of the complex to our appropriated residence. It has been a long day, though with as many accomplishments as difficulties. On the whole I am satisfied with what we did today, but still weary. I drop my things on the floor of my room and fall asleep before my head even hits the pillow.

* * *

Carth and I are up before the sun, with faint morning light reflecting off the striating clouds in hues of orange and pink. We prepare for the day quickly and efficiently, and when Carth suggests another hour of combat training, I barely hesitate before assenting. The practice seems to do me some good – at least I feel a little more comfortable with a blade in my hand – but I'm more relieved to find that the soreness from the crash has vanished completely. I give silent thanks to Doctor Forn for his kolto treatment yesterday.

Remembering the good doctor, I suggest to Carth that we visit him early on the chance that his lower city contacts will help us. Carth nods in agreement, holding his practice sword easily while I lean panting on my own, but surprises me by saying it's up to me. He says that I'm the expert, and while I agree that I do have some experience in this sort of thing, I don't know if I like having the responsibility for this mission thrust on me. When Carth is in charge, it's easy to make suggestions and act how I see fit, but if I'm the one in charge then I bear the full burden of consequences for both of our actions.

With this burden on my mind, I carefully plan out a course of action for the day as we collect our weapons and supplies. Bearing in mind our objective to find Bastila and smuggle her off planet, I'm suddenly frustrated by our lack of concrete progress so far. The information we've gathered may be useful, but it's been four, no five days since we crash landed and we haven't even found our way out of the upper city yet. With millions of sith searching the planet, time is not a luxury we have.

Our first stop is by Dia's apartment down the hall. She's from the lower city and may have some insights for us, and she may be more willing to speak with us now that we've demonstrated our good intentions. I immediately realize my mistake when she opens the door a few minutes after I knock. Dia stares at us blearily, wearing rumpled clothing and with her tousled hair caught up in a hasty knot. Caught flatfooted, I awkwardly apologize and try to offer to return another time when Carth, of all people, comes to my rescue. His easy-going manner and gentlemanly courtesy smooth the situation over, and the next thing I know Dia is inviting us in while she makes up some caf.

The conversation turns friendly much more easily than I might have suspected. Once she wakes up a bit, Dia seems more than willing to answer whatever questions we ask. She was no more than a factory worker and sometime scavenger, but she lived there her whole life in the lower city and has many insights into its workings. In less than an hour I pick up the names of a dozen important Exchange members and seven or eight of the most important swoop gangs and their various relations to each other, as well learning the names of a score of significant landmarks. Dia also confirms our suspicions that Holdan, the Exchange thug whose advances she rejected, placed a bounty on her head, and seems willing to continue talking as long as we're willing to listen. I force myself to interrupt her so that we can move on, but not before promising to make an effort to remove the bounty from her head. I can't imagine not at least trying to save this woman's life, and the cantina where this Holdan hangs out sounds like a good hub of information for our own mission.

The next few hours are rather less fruitful. Carth and I travel to the capital sector and visit Doctor Forn, but while he promises to ask his contacts to help us he has no idea when he will see them next and seems doubtful about their willingness to help. Even if his contacts can help, we can't afford the time to wait around for them, so we start dropping into various cantinas searching for some clue on how to bypass the sith checkpoints.

Aside from a few credits made at pazaak tables, neither of us turn up any usable information. Oh, there are some tantalizing hints from a few shady characters, but they shut their mouths before giving any details and won't open them for even the most thinly veiled promises of payment – fear of the sith has sunk deep into the citizens even in just a few days. The ones who do talk about ways to get to the lower city relate implausible routes which would most likely result in death even if they did avoid the sith. Even if I were inclined to believe some of these characters know what they're talking about, Rhys's betrayal makes me extra wary of exposing myself. As the sun passes its zenith and drops toward the glittering horizon of the city's towers, I become more and more convinced that Sarna's party of sith officers is our best hope.

We make a brief return to our commandeered apartment to freshen up before the party and drop off most of our equipment. I'm reluctant to be unprepared for any eventuality, but decide it might be a little off-putting to show up at a party wearing a combat vest and carrying a handful of grenades and military-grade vibroblades. I strap one small blaster pistol to my belt to ward off any would-be thugs though, and Carth refuses to part with his pair of blasters. I pull on the black attire of the Mysterious Stranger, since that is how Sarna knows me, and notice for the first time that Carth is actually wearing that dull orange flight jacket I bought him yesterday. He shrugs when I comment and simply says it's comfortable and clean. I say no more but can't help thinking that it looks right on him somehow.

Following the directions Sarna gave me, we take the tram through the lengthening shadows of twilight to a residential district of the capital sector. I stop and stretch my legs as we step onto the quiet platform. The lights of the city are dimmer here, and directly above us the stars are just visible through the city's omnipresent glow. As we walk the streets toward the apartment, I put only half my mind on finding Sarna's apartment, gazing instead at the glittering points of light above us and wishing I were off this world and back into the freedom of space beyond the reach of the sith.

Fainter points of light sparkle occasionally in the black overhead, and I realize that these are ships high above. Even from thousands of miles away, the sith blockade is a visible reminder of the difficulties before us. Hard to believe that less than a week ago we were on a ship of our own in that very sky. I imagine the sight from the planet surface as our ship was attacked; a single speck of light drifting high above, then several more suddenly appearing around it. I imagine the tiny sparkles of light as death was hurled back and forth, and a last bright flash as the _Endar Spire_ was finally destroyed. My own terror during that battle seems very distant from this perspective.

I frown slightly at this picture, realizing for the first time that the whole situation doesn't quite make sense. I glance around to see if anyone is close enough to overhear us talking, but the few people on the streets are all moving determinedly about their own business, so I say quietly, "Carth, can I ask you a few questions about the battle? There are a few things that don't seem right to me."

"It's funny you should ask about that," Carth purses his lips as if considering what to say, then gives a tiny shake of his head and continues, "You know, I've been going through the battle aboard the _Endar Spire_ over and over in my head since we crashed. Some things just don't add up for me. Maybe you could tell me what happened…from your perspective."

"Well, I was hardly in a position to know what was going on, but I'll tell you what I saw," I proceed in short sentences to describe my part in the battle, from waking to find the ship under attack, to fighting with Trask through the corridors before he died at the hands of a Dark Jedi, and finally making my way to the escape pods. I stick to the facts, leaving out those parts that stand out most clearly in my mind: my fear, explosions and blaster shots, blood and corpses, screaming wounded, the horror as Trask sacrificed himself for me.

"So you ran from the Dark Jedi, then fought your way alone to the escape pods?" Carth asks neutrally and I nod, "That's an impressive feat for someone without any real combat training. Just what is your position with the Republic fleet, anyway?"

I glance sideways at him, "You've read my service files; you know my assignment and background. I'm an aide to Admiral Dodanna – or I will be if I ever meet her – and I'm supposed to provide my services as a translator and advisor on…clandestine operations."

"Yes, I know all that, but why did the Jedi request your transfer to the _Spire_ at the last minute?"

Carth walks three full paces before he realizes I stopped dead in my tracks. I stare at him in shock and inquire stupidly, "The Jedi? Why would they request my transfer?"

"I was hoping you knew," Carth says grimly, "The Jedi requested numerous things when they came on board…hell, they practically took over the ship as far as I could tell. They don't give explanations and rarely listen to sense."

I had no idea that the Jedi had anything to do with my transfer, or that they were even aware of my existence. It seems like a bad omen for the Jedi to take a personal interest, especially when I know nothing about it. Could it be my history as a smuggler? But the Republic knew all about that when they hired me, so it was hardly a secret. This news raises some disturbing questions, and hopefully I can learn the answers before they come back to bite me. I shake my head slightly and resume walking, deciding to resume my original queries for now.

"So, if you're allowed to answer any of my questions, how did the sith manage to sneak up on us? It shouldn't have been possible unless we were all playing pat-a-cake instead of standing watch. And why in the galaxy were we escorting such a high-profile passenger so close to the war front with only a single ship in the first place?"

"I guess it doesn't matter now that the operation is in shambles, but classified information is still classified," Carth considers his words for a minute before continuing, "Well, this is all dated anyhow. We were supposed to rendezvous with a fleet over Taris for a strike into enemy territory. Nobody was here when we arrived, though, and the Force knows what's happened to the rest of the fleet."

"But how were we ambushed? They weren't waiting for us, and I can't imagine that warships coming out of hyperspace were able to disguise themselves as civilian ships."

"_That_," Carth says with emphasis, "I wish I knew. We kept our route hidden and maintained comm silence ever since we left Brentaal. I was only on board as an advisor, and when we reached Taris the Jedi insisted on waiting on the edge of the system so we could run quickly instead of moving in close to the planet as I suggested. The next thing I know, the sith come out of hyperspace right on top of us and take out our hyperdrive before we can raise shields. They knew exactly where we were, and that means they either had someone watching for us here, or more likely, we had a spy on board."

Long moments of uneasy silence follow this chilling pronouncement. Pieces click into place and my shiver is not for the cold night air.

"Are you implying that _I_ am a…" I can't make myself say the word, "…that I had something to do with the crash?"

"No," Carth replies too quickly, "Well…maybe. Don't get me wrong, it just seems odd that a non-combatant Bastila's party specifically requested to transfer aboard happened to be one of the few survivors."

"That…does sound suspicious," I confess, starting to understand Carth's distrustful behavior. I know that I'm no spy, but on the other hand I have no explanation for why the Jedi have an interest in me or how I managed to survive the battle, "Perhaps it was the Force?"

Carth laughs mirthlessly, "Is that supposed to make me feel better? The Sith use the Force, too. Look, I'm probably wrong and this is probably nothing. You've given me no reason to doubt your sincerity and I need your help. I learned a long time ago not to take things at face value, however, and I hate surprises."

"So I take it this trip hasn't been a morale booster for you, then?" I say, trying to lighten the mood. Unfortunately Carth refuses to be deflected, though he seems to think he may have pushed his point too hard.

"Hey, this has nothing to do with you, personally. I don't trust anyone, and I have my reasons. I'll work with you and cover your back, but I also have to expect the unexpected. Just to be safe."

"Always expect the worst, and all your surprises will be pleasant ones," I agree solemnly. We exchange a look, then both nod in mutual understanding. A reserved understanding, but still an agreement to cooperate cordially until there's a reason to do otherwise, "And speaking of surprises, I didn't expect to see Exchange lackeys roughing up old men on the streets of the upper city."

Carth follows my gaze to a shadowed corner where the suspended platform touches a wide building with a tunnel that the street passes through. A dark skinned man and a short, grey skinned aqualish in worn combat vests are brandishing blasters at a terrified man with only fringes of white hair. The hum of airships and general buzz of the city covers up their conversation, but I make out the words "Davik" and "missed payment". I look around for someone to stop this blatant crime, but the passersby carefully ignore the trio and there are no sith patrols in sight. To my shock, I even see a uniformed Tarisian Security officer walk by without a second glance. Do criminals run this city completely?

I pointed the scene out largely to change the topic of conversation, but as the old man pleads with the sneering thugs I realize that something terrible is about to happen right before our eyes. Carth and I are the only ones on the street who have stopped to look, but I feel the sudden urge to move on so I don't have to watch what they do to him or hear his cries. Getting involved would cause so many complications, and we might not even be able to help the man. It would be so much easier to just leave. The cowardice and self-centeredness of my own thoughts strike me suddenly, and in that moment of realization I determine not to listen to them despite every natural impulse. I lean over to Carth and speak softly, "I know we have to be careful about drawing attention to ourselves, but are we really going to let them drag this guy off?"

"No," he says firmly, unbuttoning the holsters of his two blasters, "We're not."

I follow his example and nervously grasp the handle of my own weapon, wishing now that I had worn my body armor. I try to match Carth's aura of confident authority as we stride toward the scene side by side, but grim is the best I can manage.

"You're out of time," the human thug grins, seizing the old man by the scruff of his neck, "Gonna pay up, or do we get to make an example of you?"

The aqualish hears us approach and grunts to his comrade in his unpronounceable tongue, "[Hold on a second. Looks like we got ourselves some witnesses.]"

"Tarisian Security," Carth snaps before they can react, trying to bluff them, "What's going on here?"

It was a bad approach; Carth pulls it off well, but it's clear that Tarisian Security is in Davik Kang's pocket. The human thug only glances at us, still gripping his victim, "No need for you to get involved, officers. This man hasn't been keeping up with his loan payments, but we can handle him."

"[They're not Security,]" the second thug sneers, "[Offworlders poking their noses in other people's business by the looks of them.]"

"Maybe you're right," I interject in a hard, measured tone, "But if you don't release that man right now you'll _wish_ we were Tarisian Security."

For a moment I think that they might back down. The first thug drops the old man and turns in surprise, while the second swallows his sneer and steps back with a look of fear. The next moment the first thug regains his composure with a start and turns his blaster toward us, "No one gets away with that on Davik's turf. We're gonna have to teach you to mind your own business!"

There's a blur of motion, flashes of red light, two heavy thuds, and both thugs lie dead on the ground. It all happened so fast I'm almost surprised to see the smoking blaster in my hands. Carth sheathes his own weapons with a flourish and moves to help the old man to his feet, while I absentmindedly wave a hand by my left ear where the thug's shot missed me by centimeters.

"Thank you!" the old man gasps to us, "I owe you my life!"

The nearness of that brush with death is driven from my mind by the realization that we are still in danger – standing in the open city streets over a pair of corpses is asking for trouble one way or another. The few people still on the street are ignoring us as studiously as possible, but I hurry forward to push the bodies off the platform while Carth tries to calm their intended victim.

The eyes of the dead human stare at me eerily through the veil of death. My hands twitch with sudden revulsion as I move to grasp his shoulders. Killing a man seems so much more intimate when you can see his face and the gaping wound in his neck. With great effort I drag him to the edge of the platform and begin to heave him over the railing when a sudden inspiration strikes me. These two worked for the Exchange and one of them was a non-human; they must have come from the lower city, and perhaps they carry some clue as to how they passed the checkpoints. I don't dare let my hopes get too high as I make a quick search through their clothing, and so am not too disappointed to find nothing but two heavy purses. Their filthy reward for squeezing the life out of some other poor souls, no doubt. With strength born of anger, I shove the bodies one after another over the edge and watch them disappear into the darkness below.

"It's not good to owe a crime lord money," the old man is moaning as I return from the edge, "Oh, my wife warned me not to take a loan from Davik!"

"It's alright," Carth says soothingly, "We might be able to help you out."

"You've already helped me," the man laughs almost hysterically, "but it won't do any good. He'll just keep sending more bounty hunters after me until I'm dead. How am I supposed to get one hundred credits to pay him back?"

"Here, take these," I interject, handing the purses I found to the old man, "There's something just over a hundred credits in these two combined."

"You're giving me a hundred credits, just like that?" he stares at me in astonishment, "I…I don't know what to say! Thank you! Thank…"

"Then don't say anything," I interrupt, both embarrassed and a little irritated. I lower my voice and add, "Just promise me one thing: don't spend the money you earn on drink or gambling in the future."

He gapes at me as if I read his mind rather than his manner and circumstances. Bobbing little bows of thanks he stammers, "Yes, I…you're right. I…I better take these credits to Davik's men right away."

As he scampers off, Carth turns to me and asks inquiringly, "You just gave him a hundred credits? Generous."

"It was blood money, wrenched from the hands of the wretched. I didn't want it. Maybe this way it will make amends," I frown in the direction of the disappearing old man. In truth, I think there is an even chance that he will just get himself and his wife in trouble again, "Do you disapprove?"

"No, not at all. We need whatever resources we can get, but that was the right thing to do. Things like this remind us what we're fighting for, and as I said earlier that's what sets us apart from the Sith," Carth sounds surprised and impressed. I suppose he thought a smuggler would think of credits first and everything else after. For my part, I think there is some truth in Carth's words. At any rate, they make me feel less cynical about the situation.

"Well," I say briskly, "We shouldn't stick around here any longer. Shall we go on to that party? I think it's in that building just over there."

"Yes, let's," Carth frowns now, "I'd rather get this over with."

"They won't mind if I bring a guest," I assure him, "We had best split up and mingle, though. Remember, we're here to pick their minds, but we don't want to draw attention to ourselves. At first we should…"

I continue to give suggestions and advice as we walk to the apartment and climb onto a lift. Carth merely nods and looks as if he's steeling himself to wrestle a pair of rancors with his bare hands. He's having a harder time facing our enemies with the guise of friendship than I am. I fall silent as the lift doors slide open.

The pulsing noise of music further around the curving corridor makes checking the apartment number unnecessary. A sudden burst of self-consciousness assaults me as we move into the hall, and I hastily check to make sure that I'm still presentable after the tussle with the Exchange lackeys. Carth notices my unease and his slight smile relaxes the tightness of his face.

"You look fine, Taryn," he says, "You're great at this kind of thing. Just remember who we're dealing with and be careful."

The apartment commandeered by the sith officers for their party is much different from the worn out hovel Carth and I are using. At least three times the size, it is also richly decorated and well cared for, at least until its most recent occupants arrived. The door is wide open, showing the party in full swing. Nearly twenty sith officers, some still wearing bits and pieces of their uniforms, and a smaller number of civilian guests fill the apartment, about equal numbers of men and women. A number of them are dancing energetically to the loud music, and the rest have glasses in their hands and are laughing and talking animatedly. Carth hesitates at the door, but I walk straight in with a forced smile. Fortunately, Sarna notices me right away.

"Lars, you made it!" she cries, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me toward the small but well-stocked bar, "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show. You have to try this Tarisian ale – it's fantastic!"

Somewhat bemused, I accept a glass with no intention of drinking more than I can help. I tip the glass to my mouth, intending to pretend a swallow, but I don't feign the choke that sprays Tarisian ale all over the floor. Sarna laughs delightedly.

"It's great stuff, isn't it? They sure don't have anything like this on Resaca."

"Clearly none of them realized how pleasant it is to pour liquid fire down your throat," I gasp wryly, and she laughs again. I slopped half the glass when I choked, so she can't tell that I don't swallow any of my second mouthful, either.

"That's what I said when I first tried it, but once you get used to it it's great. Come on, let me introduce you to some of my friends."

Sarna takes me over to some of her officer friends, mostly men. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carth trying to start up a conversation with another pair of off-duty soldiers, but I can't spare any more thought for him. Sarna and I move freely amongst the other partygoers, sometimes merely greeting them and sometimes stopping to talk and laugh over our drinks. As usual, I listen carefully and on occasion try to subtly get more information about their lower city patrols. Many of the male officers are trying to impress the local women they invited to the party, and I use that to nudge more out of them.

After a while of this, we abandon our drinks and Sarna pulls me to the center of the room to dance. Nearly everyone else has joined the dancing at this point, though I notice Carth standing in a corner and watching a little sadly. The music is not to my taste and it would be exaggeration to call myself a mediocre dancer, but I manage to please Sarna enough that we carry on for nearly half an hour. At last, panting and laughing, we collapse onto a small sofa. I managed to have fun despite myself, and I was glad to have a companion who laughed with me at my missteps rather than getting irritated.

After we recover our breath, I get up to bring back more drinks. Sarna starts showing the effects of the alcohol, but is still awake and talkative. As we talk late into the night, she snuggles herself closer and closer to me. Eventually I notice that we're among the last people still up. The music has been mercifully turned off, a number of the guests have left, and most of those who didn't sneak into the bedrooms have fallen into a drunken stupor where they sat. Sarna has her arms wrapped around me and is nestling her head comfortably on my shoulder, with my arm curled around her waist. I long ago stopped prodding for information, as no one is in a fit state to converse intelligently anymore. Although I learned a lot, I'm disappointed there was nothing that would let us get past the checkpoints. All the same, I still feel guilty for using Sarna like this. In spite of my expectations, I found myself enjoying the evening with her.

Sarna's final rambling story about her brother's exploits driving landspeeders trails away, and I've just decided that she's fallen asleep when she suddenly seizes my face with both hands and kisses me. In my surprise I don't react at first, but finally respond gently before pulling away and giving her a quizzical look.

"I think thurs a thing…a…a bed shomewhere. Lesh go find it," she slurs as she starts playing with the buttons of my shirt, then hiccups, "Youse might have carry me."

I feel a flush rising uninvited in my cheeks. Sarna's red hair is tousled and her breath reeks of alcohol, but she's still quite pretty. I remind myself sternly that I'm not seventeen anymore and fight to regain my composure, "Maybe another time. I wouldn't want to take advantage of you."

"Mmm…s'nice. Youse nice. But I wouln't mind takin advanage of you," she taps me on the nose.

I don't pretend the prospect has no appeal to me, but even if she weren't drunk and a sith, I've never thought sex something to be taken lightly. I try to distract her with another offer in the hope that she will fall asleep soon, "Why don't I get you something to drink instead."

"Nnno…no more. Think I've had 'nough."

"I meant water. I'll be right back, Sarna. Just wait here."

She doesn't want to let go, but eventually I remove her fingers from my shirt and lay her comfortably on the couch. She is struggling to keep her eyes open as I walk over to the sink to fill a glass with water. I turn around to find Carth standing right behind me. He's not drunk like the rest of the remaining partiers, but I think he still drank more than I did.

"You find our lucky card, or were you just enjoying yourself?" he demands crossly.

I ignore the accusation and look around to see who might overhear. The last of the remaining revelers appears to have fallen asleep, but I still speak carefully, "Afraid not, but my deck's a little heavier all the same."

Carth frowns and looks around, then says, "Let's get out of here then. This has been a waste of time."

I had such high hopes of finally finding a way to the lower city at this party, but it seems my hopes were in vain and we are even further behind in the search for Bastila. I don't want to leave without saying some kind of farewell to Sarna, though, even if she doesn't remember it. I feel, if not necessarily romantic interest, at least sympathy for her; the prospects of a soldier in the sith army are not pleasant. Her rough snores from the couch tell me that she has finally succumbed to the strength of the Tarisian ale, so I put the water on a small table by her head. Still wanting to say farewell, I search the apartment hastily and find pen and paper amongst a pile of discarded sith armor and uniforms. When it comes to the point, though, I can't think of anything to say, so I simply write "Force be with you – The Mysterious Stranger" and put my note under the glass near her head. Carth waves at me impatiently, and I'm nearly out of the door when inspiration strikes.

"Carth!" I whisper hoarsely, temporarily forgetting caution, "They left their uniforms! What if we took a couple and disguised ourselves to get past the guards?"

His irritation vanishes in an instant and he hurries to look at the pile, "That…that just might work. But won't they guess who took them?"

I think hard, tiredness evaporating, "Not if we do this right. Help me out here."

Within ten minutes Carth and I have chosen out the two sets of silver sith armor that fit us best. The rest of the armor and uniforms are scattered on the floor in a rough path from their original pile to the open balcony. More bits and pieces of uniform have been thrown over the edge of the balcony, and some of them landed in plain sight on balconies or other protrusions far below. I dust my hands and turn to Carth with a satisfied smile, "Obviously one of them thought this would be a fun prank while they were drunk tonight. They'll never know who it was, and they'll never realize that two sets of armor were stolen instead of thrown away."

They will all be punished for losing valuable equipment, of course, but I made sure Sarna's uniform wasn't one of the ones tossed over the edge so I hope she will escape that. Carth seems immensely pleased to finally have a plan, and we hastily stow the uniforms away in a couple of large duffle bags – the armor is irritatingly difficult to carry inconspicuously. I can't help feeling a warm glow of satisfaction myself; we are finally making progress. Tomorrow at last we will venture into the lower city and be that much closer to ending this mission.


End file.
